


many paths, through shadow

by Ias



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, Angst, First Time, Forbidden Love, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Seduction to the Dark Side, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 10:12:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 41,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7044175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ias/pseuds/Ias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sent by the Jedi Council on an assignment to watery Esgaroth, Thranduil finds his feelings for his on-planet contact straying far from what is permitted by the Jedi Code.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Fantastic art by scheissedraws to accompany this story can be found [here](http://scheissedraws.tumblr.com/post/145242547251/many-paths-through-shadow-by-ias-sent-by-the) (contains spoilers)
> 
> A stunning edit by cutlerbeckettt can be found [here](http://cutlerbeckettt.tumblr.com/post/145262475025/many-paths-through-shadow-by-curmudgeony-ias) (spoiler free)

It was the first morning of spring when they took Bard’s child away.

He’d watched the sky for hours, averting his eyes and hurrying off to some other task whenever his family caught him at it. The clouds hung low that day, turning to a thick mist near the planet’s surface. The transport appeared from those blank white vapors so suddenly it seemed to spring into existence out of nothing. And yet the moment before it sank down from the cover of the clouds, Bard had felt as if his chest had opened up onto a cold, dark well, something hollow sucking away inside of him. Only then had the ship appeared, as dark and silent as a carrion bird drifting on the wind—as if in some way Bard had called it to him. As if this was always what was meant to happen.

He wiped his cheeks hurriedly as the ship lowered itself into the water at the end of the rickety dock that led to Bard’s house. By the time the cockpit slid open and the two robed figures climbed out onto the wooden dock to Bard’s house, his face was as hard as stone.

There was not much talk. He invited them in, of course, and offered them tea and what food he had available—they accepted out of politeness, for they hardly ate or drank. Tilda sat at the table across from them, and Bard sat at her side with his arm around her shoulders, unable to move away. When they asked to speak to Tilda alone, and Bard had no excuse not to comply. He lingered outside the door, listening to the murmur of adult voices and Tilda’s faint answers. He couldn’t make out the words, but he could imagine what the Jedi were promising well enough.  What child could resist it? What parent could stop them?

At last the door opened softly from the inside, revealing the smooth face of one of the Jedi.

“You should speak with your daughter,” she said. “We will be waiting outside.”

And as the Jedi stepped aside, Bard had looked to Tilda where she sat at the weathered kitchen table. He saw in her face the decision he had known would be there, known it from the moment the Jedi had first happened across them in town and looked at his daughter with that cool, awful interest. But he knelt before Tilda’s chair all the same, met her wide, determined gaze with the best smile he could muster as she told him she was going to leave.

“Are you mad?” she asked, fidgeting in her lap. A laugh bubbled up in Bard’s throat, or perhaps it was a sob. Tilda was choosing to leave behind everything that she knew, and it was his reaction she was worried about. He loved her for that.

“I’m not mad,” Bard whispered. His throat was tight. He pulled Tilda into a hug before she could see his face contort. “I’m so proud of you, darling.”

He felt Tilda’s body shudder. Her arms around his neck clung to him like a stranglehold. “I’m scared.”

How cruel, to be forced to give his own child his blessing to never see him again. If this was the price of balance in the universe, then it was high, too awfully high. He pulled away far enough to stare into her eyes, forcing himself to smile the way he had so many times before, and this was the final time. “It’s okay to be afraid,” he said, smoothing her hair down. “Sometimes it’s scary to do something this important. But you’re _strong_ , Tilda. You’re going to do great things.” He blinked, swallowed hard. “I just know it.”

Tilda stared at him, her lip trembling in spite of the iron in her eyes. “I’ll come back,” she whispered. “When I’m done with my training. Then you’ll get to see for yourself.”

Bard pulled her into a hug. He didn’t have the strength to lie, nor the cruelty to tell her the truth. He tried to memorize everything about her: her smile, her laugh, her eyes. That last part wasn’t difficult. They were her mother’s eyes, and they were burned onto his heart.

He called to Sigrid and Bain, then, so that Tilda could tell them her decision and they could bid their sister farewell forever.

They took her not long after that, one of the Jedi walking with a hand on Tilda’s shoulder, guiding her towards the sleek body of the ship where it floated in the murky water. Bard had told her not to look back, but of course she did. He had already wiped away the tears, but the last smile he offered her was a fractured, painful thing that cut his mouth like broken glass. Sigrid and Bain cried openly, and he hadn’t the heart to tell them to hide their grief.

The second Jedi stayed at his side until Tilda disappeared into the ship, into her new life, away from everything she knew. Such bravery must have come from her mother, because at the moment fear and longing were chewing into Bard’s gut like poison.

“Your daughter will have an opportunity to make a great difference in the universe,” the Jedi said. Her eyes were kind. “Try not to grieve for her. She’s going on to a better life.”

For a moment, Bard looked at the Jedi and thought he was going to punch her. She must have sensed his intention, for her posture changed, grew defensive—but though Bard’s fists trembled, he kept them at his side. “I’m doing this for Tilda. Not for you. Not for your ‘balance’. _She_ chose this, not me. So don’t think that just because I’m letting her go doesn’t mean I don’t despise you for it.”

The Jedi nodded, slowly. “In time, you will come to see this is best.”

Bard looked away. “Take her. You’re going to do that whether I will it or not.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw the Jedi incline her head, and make her way down the dock back to the ship. Bard wouldn’t let himself watch as the ship picked up and drifted back into the sky.

He stood on his porch long after the distant hum of the engines had faded. The lake was quiet. For a moment, everything was as it was before. Tilda was about to run out of the house behind him and ask about taking the boat out into the swamps again. Sigrid and Bain were not alone in the house behind him, waiting for what was left of their father to come back inside. He was not hanging in the in-between, the breath before the shout, the moment of a leap just before the fall.

The moment ended. Bard turned around and opened the door onto brittle silence, a house that all at once felt utterly unfamiliar.


	2. Chapter 2

_Two years later._

 

Bard finished his round of deliveries and pick-ups early on the day the city man was meant to show up. He’d had to cancel his route along the northern shore of the Lake in order to make it back in time; he knew that if he were late and his employer forced to wait, he could lose this contract entirely. In Bard’s marginal experience of them, the Coruscanti were all like that. No time to wait, and no need to treat anyone from a backwater planet with anything but faintly veiled contempt. Bard was ready to swallow his pride for the figures the man had quoted over the holoscreen.

Bard had hardly believed his luck when he’d first gotten the call. It seemed that someone in the bright heart of the galaxy was interested in the small green crystals that only formed on Esgaroth, the planet Bard had lived on his entire life. A culture mistrustful of outsiders and strict trade regulations imposed by the planet’s government made getting ahold of them in large quantities quite the ordeal, but moving shipments was Bard’s specialty and he had no qualms about taking Coruscanti money when business on his own planet was less than lucrative. He’d bought up selections from other sellers while traveling his delivery routes on the barge, buying a little here and a little there until he had amassed the quantities his contact was interested in. The moment of truth would only come when the man himself showed up to decide whether this arrangement was to become a continuous business partnership. With the hard times he and his family had suffered through, Bard was depending on it.

So he returned to his home early, cruising the hovering barge in near the dock and letting it rest on the water with an asthmatic groan from the engine. The pier led up from the edge of the Lake over the marshy ground which surrounded it. Bard could glimpse his house through the ever-present haze of mist, rising on stilts above the soft ground like a strange and unwieldy bird. He made his way up to it with the supplies he’d purchased for his family to live on in the coming week—it seemed his bag was lighter than it had been the week before. Nervousness sloshed in the pit of his stomach at the thought that this contract might fall through. For now there was nothing to do but wait.

It was almost midday when the ‘morning’ shipment collection arrived.

“Finally,” Bard muttered as the vibration of a ship touching down at the edge of the pier made the whole house shudder alarmingly. Bard pulled on his coat and smoothed down his hair, as pointless as it was—as far as Bard was concerned, any visitor from Coruscant would see nothing here but mud.  

“Are they here, Da?” Bain asked, popping his head down from the loft.

“No concern of yours,” Bard said. “I want all those nets mended by the time you come down that ladder.”

Bain made a face, but he mercifully disappeared. Bard wouldn’t have his children pestering the agent with questions about life on Coruscant on the very first day. No need to play the role of the rustic fisher-folk dazzled by technology any sooner than necessary. He brushed off his coat and stepped into the brisk afternoon air, a faint mist of rain quickly settling on his shoulders.

The ship was already settled as Bard stopped a short distance away. It was a small carrier craft, a light hauler, well-made but not extravagant from what Bard could see it of above the water. He’d warned his contact to choose a ship capable of landing on water, for most of the ‘ground’ on Esgaroth was a swampy mire that would suck down anything heavier than a speeder. The ship’s hatch opened after a moment, tinted glass sliding back to allow the pilot to climb out and step from it onto the dock. Bard stepped forward, opening his mouth to call out a greeting—

—until he saw the robes.

Bard’s jaw locked around the kind words he’d had prepared. For a moment, he was back on his front porch on that clear spring day, and his daughter was fading away from him forever on the whine of a ship’s engines.

The Jedi stopped before him, stared at his face for a barely perceptible moment, then bowed.

“Greetings,” he said. “My name is Thranduil Oropherion. The Jedi Council has sent me to collect what they paid for.”

Only sheer bafflement shook Bard out of his stupor. “My contract wasn’t with the Jedi Council,” he said.

The Jedi—Thranduil—raised his eyebrows with a smile that said he was amused for all the wrong reasons. “I can assure you that it is,” he said, smoothing a hand down his distinctive robes for emphasis.

Bard shook his head and tried again. “The man who offered me the contract was no Jedi. Just another Coruscanti bureaucrat.”

“Ah. I can see where the confusion might have originated. The Council’s interest in your planet’s unique resource is not one we wished to be televised widely. And every organization needs its minor workers, does it not?” From the man’s cold smile, Bard knew that was exactly what this Jedi already had relegated him to. He inspected the contemptuous set of Bard’s face—or perhaps even the thoughts directly behind it—and tilted his head. “Is my status as a Jedi Knight a problem for you?”

Bard almost told him to climb back into his ship and fly into the nearest solar body. They had chosen him to be their middle-man because scarcely anyone on this planet would sell to outsiders, even if the planetary government’s trade restrictions weren’t so strict. If Bard told this Jedi to piss off they would have a very hard time of finding anyone else willing to do business with them. The thought of dealing even such a small blow to the Jedi Order almost convinced him right there. But he thought of all the nights he sat down to dinner with his family and known there was not enough food on the table. This contract paid better than any he was likely to see. He needed the money.

“Of course not,” he said with a stiff smile. Thranduil inclined his head, but there was a tinge of satisfaction in his eyes.  

“Excellent,” Thranduil continued. “In that case, I will first need to inspect the shipment.”

Bard nodded, his jaw tight, and beckoned Thranduil over to a place on the pier where a chain snaked down beneath the water’s surface. Bard pulled it up with no little effort, until at last a small barrel broke the surface and he could haul it onto the pier itself. Thranduil raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

Thranduil broke open the barrel’s top with ease, reaching in with delicate fingers to draw out the first of the crystals. The light seemed to pool and slide over its surface like oil, the color shifting from a murky green to the vibrant color of leaves. Formed in the rich mud at the bottom of Esgaroth’s many water systems, they weren’t found anywhere else in the galaxy. Bard’s people simply called them girion-emeralds, and used them as decorations; but Bard doubted the Jedi’s interest lay in jewelry.

Thranduil took his time, drawing multiple crystals out to hold them to the light, as if Bard was fool enough to try and cheat him.

“There’s two more barrels of the same,” Bard said, fighting to keep the edge off his voice as he began to think that Thranduil was going to try and haggle for a lower price. “Will you need to see those as well?”

“That will not be necessary.” Thranduil stared at the crystals for a while longer, taking his time. At last, he nodded and placed them all back.

“This will do,” he said.

“Might I ask what your interest is in pretty baubles?”

“You may ask.” Thranduil spoke almost absent-mindedly, yet by some miracle seemed to realize his rudeness. “There are those on Coruscant who strive to develop further ways of augmenting a Jedi’s powers. These crystals show some potential. All you need to know beyond that is that we will pay you triple the price you’re likely to get from any faction on planet.”

Bard took a slow breath. The price was even better than the one he and the Coruscanti envoy had originally agreed on. It was not too late for him to turn down the arrogant Jedi’s offer, but with a payment like that Bard was hooked like a fish on a line and Thranduil knew it.

“I’ll agree to those terms,” Bard said lightly, and even as his stomach twisted he knew he would be able to feed his family well this week.

Thranduil nodded, his eyes turning to inspect the tangle of trees and mist beyond the pier. Already Bard was in the process of being dismissed from his mind. “I thought you might. In that case, you may load up the ship. It was a long journey from Coruscant, and I will require a place to stay for the night—I don’t suppose you can offer any recommendations?” From his tone, Thranduil had certain ideas about the quality of Esgaroth’s hospitality. The snobbishness Bard had expected, but in the mouth of a Jedi it turned his stomach.

“Oh, I’m sure that the best of our bread and board is nothing to your refined standards,” Bard said with a politely nasty smile. “But the Black Arrow has the best sticky grub pudding on the planet, and practically no lice to boot.” Actually, most of the inns contained fairly normal food by galactic standards, and perfectly clean rooms. But if this Jedi wanted to assume he’d be sleeping in a hayloft with a plate of cold tripe, let him.

Unsurprisingly, Thranduil did not offer to help him load the barrels into his ship. Bard scarcely resisted the urge to roll one over the arrogant Jedi’s toes.


	3. Chapter 3

Thranduil was not over-fond of marshland.

He did not think that was a controversial opinion. After all, no one was eagerly lining up to vacation on a swamp planet. No one was singing the praises of a place which received an hour of sunlight per decade. No one liked the smell of water and plant matter so soggy that even its rot was rotting. And no one in their right mind would actively want to return to such a place, time and time again, picking up barrels and delivering them as if piloting a ship was all that his Jedi training had prepared him for.

All things considered, Thranduil thought he was handling the situation with as much grace as could be expected.

“You’re sulking,” Tauriel said. “It’s obvious and off-putting.”

“I don’t sulk.” After his latest trip, the dry air of the Jedi temple was a welcome balm. He and Tauriel strolled through the arches and outer walkways, going nowhere in particular. Except, evidently, towards a scolding.

“Of course you don’t,” Tauriel agreed placidly. “Speaking of which: how is your assignment going?”

Thranduil was very careful to keep his face blank. Easier said than done. At the mention of his assignment his mouth had the habit of twisting into a grimace reminiscent of a taste of sour Corellian whiskey. At his side, Tauriel awaited his answer, the ghost of a smug smile on her face. She knew very well what he was about to say, but he was going to say it anyways.

“Is that what we’re calling it?” Thranduil said. “I thought ‘exile’ might be more appropriate.”

Tauriel shot him a reproachful look. It seemed incredible that she had graduated from being his Padawan almost so many years before, for all the lip she gave him. Then again, he hadn’t exactly discouraged it. “Best not to talk like that where someone from the Council might hear you griping. They’d be just as likely to extend your sentence indefinitely.”

“I’m not griping,” Thranduil said. “I’m merely expressing a perfectly valid complaint about a ridiculous situation.”

“What was _truly_ ridiculous was that business on Dantooine. Which, I need not remind you, is the reason you’re relegated to grunt work in the first place.”

“You’re right,” Thranduil said. “You need not remind me.”

Tauriel chuckled. “Fair enough. But at least it’s _easy_. Do you know how much sand I’ve had to scrub off my body this past week? I’m so exfoliated I don’t know if I have skin left.”

“Easy?” Thranduil snorted. “Oh, it would be easy. If my contact on Esgaroth wasn’t possibly the most difficult man in the galaxy.”

Tauriel raised her eyebrows. “I glanced over your assignment file. This ‘Bard Bowman’ came highly recommended by the character references we tracked down.”

“You ‘glanced over my file’? I find it more likely that you pored over it for hours while cackling with glee.”

“There was no cackling. I was in the library. Cackling is generally frowned upon.”

“How prudent of you to exercise restraint.”

“Don’t change the subject. How has your contact gone from model citizen to stick in the mud?”

“You’re more apt than you know with that metaphor. I’m fairly confident there’s nothing on that planet _but_ mud. And the emeralds, which is of course the problem.” Thranduil paused by an open window, leaning to rest his elbows on the stone. The view overlooked the Processional Way far below, dotted with tiny figures making their way to or from the Temple itself, flanked by the bronze statues of the Warrior Masters on one side, and the hooded statues of the Sage Masters on the other. “Bard is no model citizen. He has a history of trouble with the planetary authorities, accusations of improper shipping silencing, smuggling of banned goods—”

“I thought that unreasonable shipping laws were one of the reasons the Council had working with an independent contact in the first place,” Tauriel said blandly.

Thranduil shot her a look. “Perhaps. But that doesn’t change the fact that I could sense his hatred from the moment he saw my Jedi robes. He almost threw his contract back in my face, rather than work with someone from the Order.”

“Well, it’s hardly surprising,” Tauriel said. There was a note of caution in her voice that Thranduil found unfamiliar.

“I was certainly surprised,” he said. “Usually people wait until I’ve begun to speak to dislike me. This was just… blind prejudice.”

After a moment he realized that Tauriel was uncharacteristically quiet. When he glanced over at her leaning on the windowsill beside him, he realized she was watching him closely.

“You mean you don’t know?” she said.

Thranduil paused. He waited for the sensation rising in his chest to dissipate. He made himself a blank slate, incapable of apprehension. His training made it easy.

“Know what?”

 

 

It had been a long time since Thranduil had visited the younglings quarter. He had felt no desire to take on another Padawan, and that was one issue the Jedi Council was not likely to press. Even now, stepping over the threshold brought up a swell of conflicting memories. Tauriel as a child when he was first assigned to train her, the defiant little crease in her brow as she saw him for the first time.

And Legolas—well. After that, the Council had accepted that perhaps he was simply not in a good position to mentor.

So it had been a long, long time since Thranduil had stood and watched the younglings practice, blast-shields over their eyes as they deflected the droid’s stinging bolts with their practice sabers. He kept out of sight of the Master overseeing them, watching until a young girl with brown hair and familiar eyes stepped up to don the helmet next.

Thranduil sighed through his nose, a slow exhalation. Well. That did explain a few things about Bard’s immediate distaste for the Jedi Order. Yet the Jedi weren’t snatching from cradles in the dead of night—the man had let them take her. He had no right to hate the Jedi for what he had done to himself.

But then again, what kind of choice could a parent make between keeping a child in their lives, and denying them a bright future in the center of the Galaxy? Thranduil would never know. He was not permitted to have children, and his Padawan was grown.

Thranduil watched the youngling deflected the practice droid’s blasts with ease. She was good. The Force was strong with her.

Thranduil left before his presence was noted, and questions asked about what concern he had with the daughter of the man he already disliked.

 

 

The man was less open with his hostility the next time Thranduil arrived to collect the shipment. He simply remained curt, and rather sarcastic for a man so vastly outranked. Of course, the Jedi had no rank, per se—perhaps _outmatched_ was the better word. And yet Bard looked at him with contempt. Thranduil bit back on the cold comments that came so naturally to him. He couldn’t help but see the echo of Tilda’s face beneath the hard edges of Bard’s expression.

Watching Bard load the barrels up, Thranduil tried to imagine what it had been like to send a child away forever. He’d read Tilda’s file carefully before this latest trip—there was minimal information about Bard, a brief history of employment and the occasional spot of trouble with the law. But when it came to the girl’s mother, the file had read only ‘deceased’. Out of the family of five, only three remained. But of course, Tilda was alive and well, and already on the road to success with her training as a Jedi. She was happy, presumably. Thranduil himself could scarcely remember his family, and he had no opportunity to miss them.

“That should do it,” Bard said, as he finished loading the last barrel into the compartment of Thranduil’s ship. When Thranduil did not immediately dismiss him, the man raised an eyebrow. “Will that be all?”

“They never told me your child was training at the Temple,” Thranduil said.

Bard’s posture stiffened. Thranduil could see the tension in his muscles like taut lines of steel.

“Tilda, was it?” Thranduil continued. “I consulted her file. There was nothing abnormal about her extraction. No mention of any objections on your part.”

He knew he was pushing his luck. What he didn’t know was what Bard would do. A tremor seemed to go through the man’s frame, but what Thranduil could sense of his mind was too chaotic to interpret. “I didn’t argue,” Bard said at last. His voice was very quiet. “I did what I could to give her the best future I was able to. There was nothing I could offer her here, no life which could compare to that of a Jedi. That doesn’t mean it didn’t rip my heart out to lose her.”

“You speak of her as if she is dead.”

“She might as well be,” Bard said bitterly. He looked at Thranduil sharply, as if blaming him for opening this old wound. “I’ll never see her again.”

Though it might not be wise, Thranduil took a step closer. “She is living the life you gifted to her,” he said. “She’s on the path to a greater life. A life where she can make a difference. And she’s well on the way through her training to becoming a very talented Padawan.” 

Bard turned around. His eyes cut into Thranduil’s. “…You’ve seen her.” It wasn’t a question. Thranduil nodded.

At once Bard let out a breath as if he’d been holding it for hours, dragging his hands over his face. “How is she?” he said. “Is she safe? Is she happy?”

Thranduil hesitated. “I’m not permitted to say much,” he said. It wasn’t the whole truth. The Council would disapprove of him saying anything at all, yet it was not their disapproval that made him hesitate. He knew already that telling this man too much about a daughter he could never see would only cause him more pain.

But Bard stepped forward, his eyes desperate. He gripped Thranduil’s arm with bruising strength. The first time, perhaps, that Bard had touched him at all. “Please,” he whispered. “Just tell me something. Anything. I beg you.”

Thranduil held his gaze. The Jedi were meant to be a force for good. And it seemed nothing but cruelty to turn away from the man now. “She’s safe, and happy,” he said at last. “She’s very talented. The force is strong with her. I see the potential for greatness in her.”

For a while Bard was silent, breathing as if he had just exerted a massive effort, covered some great distance. But then he closed his eyes, and bowed his head. It was the most at peace Thranduil had ever seen him.

“Thank you,” he said. “You can’t know what you’ve just given me.”

Thranduil nodded, unsmiling. “This stays between us, you understand. You may tell your other children, but no one else.”

Bard nodded. “Could you get her a message from me? I don’t want her to think I’ve forgotten her.”

Thranduil stiffened. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

Some of the old anger flashed across Bard’s face. “Why not?”

“Your daughter is to become a Jedi, Bard. That means she can have no connections, no attachments to anything or anyone—not even family. Especially not family.” Thranduil watched as anger was replaced by pain, the furrow between Bard’s brows deepening. Thranduil took a breath and dealt the final blow. “You may not have forgotten her, may never forget her; but the best thing she can do is to forget _you_ entirely.”

Bard’s jaw tightened. He looked away. “That sounds very lonely.”

“She will learn to accept it.”

Bard’s gaze flicked back to him shrewdly. “Did you?”

Thranduil slid his hands into his sleeves, an unconscious gesture. “Yes.”

“And are _you_ content?”

Thranduil donned a thin smile. “‘There is no emotion, there is peace.’” He intoned the Code’s words with the hollowness of constant repetition.

Bard stared down at the dirt between them, his hands on his hips. Bard rubbed a hand over his eyes, silent for a long moment. Thranduil waited until he raised his head again, his features composed. “I don’t think I believe you,” he said. Thranduil bit back his arguments. They would find no footing in a man still reeling from grief.

“We’ll have the next shipment ready in two weeks,” Bard said. The cold veneer was back, pushing Thranduil to arm’s length. He accepted it. It was how it should be.

“I will be here,” Thranduil said, as he turned and hoisted himself up into his ship’s cockpit. Another night on the planet and the long trip back awaited. Yet he could not drive the memory of Bard’s long-remembered pain from his mind, even the next morning when the planet shrank to a green-grey dot behind him.

When next he was at the Temple, he resolved to check on Tilda’s progress once more. She may have been required to leave everything behind her, but it seemed that was the one thing her father could not do. If Thranduil could ease the man’s suffering, it was his duty as a Jedi to do so.


	4. Chapter 4

As the weeks and months wore on, Bard was surprised to find that life was actually getting easier. The extra credits from his business with the Jedi ensured that food and clean water was no longer a concern. Bard was able to purchase a droid second-hand from a seller he traded with in the South, to help with repairing the pier and hauling his heavier wares to and from the barge. Sigrid had also taught it how to clean the floors and do the dishes, though its metal claws left scratches on every plate.

The first time Bard had seen Thranduil he’d felt his stomach twist with such anger and dislike that he was sure he’d never be able to exchange a pleasant word with the Jedi; time had proved that assumption wrong, as Thranduil continued to offer small details about Tilda’s life at the Jedi Temple that left Bard starving for more. Perhaps Thranduil only did so in order to win Bard’s cooperation; Bard didn’t care. He’d have done anything to keep getting those tiny glimpses into his lost daughter’s life, to feel as if in some way he was still looking out for her, still her father. Every word Thranduil had to say about her twisted the knife that had stuck into Bard’s chest the day Tilda was taken away, and yet Bard kept asking.

His children were always quiet when Thranduil came to collect his shipments, Bain in particular; it wasn’t until months after the contract began that Bard discovered why. Thranduil had been there earlier in the day, and had told Bard that Tilda had begun to use her first practice lightsaber. Bard had nearly felt tears sting his eyes, pride and loss twisting him like a rag, but had fought them back. He didn’t want Thranduil to see his weakness. Thranduil, for his part, had looked away politely while Bard quickly regained his composure.

“Thank you for telling me,” Bard said some time later, his voice hoarse and clipped. He’d never been good at expressing his gratitude to Thranduil, the memory of a Jedi leading Tilda away forever too sharp a pain to ignore for long. Yet Thranduil never seemed to begrudge him, or at least he did not stop. Even when Bard could be nearly undone by a few scant words, Thranduil never looked at him with pity.

At dinner that night Bard had just finished telling Sigrid and Bain the news about Tilda’s training when Bain tossed his spoon into his bowl with a clatter. Bard stared at him in surprise—his face still had the softness of youth, but at the moment his jaw was a hard line.

“How can you talk about it like it’s such a good thing?” Bain demanded.

Bard paused, weighed his words carefully. “It is a good thing, Bain.”

“Well it’s just another step further away from us she’s taking, isn’t it?” Bain glared at him across the table. Sigrid remained silent, watching them both with wary eyes. “And you act like it’s all fine. Even with that Jedi you’re working with. Are you forgetting they’re the ones who took Tilda away in the first place—”

Sigrid kicked her brother under the table so hard Bard heard the thud. Bard quietly set his fork down. He didn’t think he could choke any more food down past the bitterness in his mouth.

“I haven’t forgotten,” he said at last, meeting his son’s gaze with tired eyes. “I’ll never forget. But this Jedi is the only connection to your sister I have left. Even if it was people like him which took her in the first place.”

Bain stared blankly at his plate. “That doesn’t sound like a good deal to me.”

“It isn’t. Sometimes you have to make a bad bargain, because it’s the only one you’re likely to find.”  Bard quickly ate the rest of his food, tasting none of it. It sat in his stomach as a greasy weight, but he didn’t have the heart to waste food. More than anything he wished he had more to offer Bain than such bitter wisdom. He wanted to tell his children to never settle for less, to fight for the best lives they could get. But Bard knew from experience that in a place like this, it was better not to raise your hopes too high.

“Besides,” Bard said lightly as he carried his plate to the rusting sink. “The Jedi isn’t so bad.”

“After you met him you said he was an arrogant ass,” Sigrid commented dryly from the table.

“Aye, I did. But on the spectrum of arrogant asses, he is doing better than some.” The rusty droid trundled up to the sink and began to paw at the plate Bard had left there, not so much cleaning it as mauling the food off of it. Bard glanced back at Bain, whose face was now darkening with regret. Bard dragged his chair so he could sit in front of Bain directly and stare into his son’s eyes. “It may hurt to know that Tilda has left us,” he said quietly. “But we must accept that she has her own path now, one we cannot follow. All we can do is be happy for every step she takes.”

Bain looked down, his mouth an unhappy line. From her place at the table Sigrid was watching them both, her expression unreadable. Bain’s anger was easier to tame. Whatever Sigrid felt for her sister’s loss, she kept it deep inside of herself, where Bard could not reach it. Perhaps she had learned that from him.

Later on in the evening Thranduil contacted Bard over the Holonet, his image rendered in washed-out blues on the dingy holoscreen in Bard’s room. “The work with your crystals has been going well,” Thranduil said. “The Council is considering increasing their order, if you’re able to meet our demand.”

“I will be,” Bard said, though he was not so certain. He would find a way. He always did.

Thranduil paused. Bard waited for the feed to cut without a goodbye, as it usually did. But the image remained, wavering as it was, and at last Thranduil spoke again.

“I have something which might interest you,” he said. For once, his voice sounded almost hesitant. Without further prelude, the image on Bard’s screen changed—he was looking at a still image, reproduced as well as the holoscreen was able. A handful of children were posing for a photograph. They all wore beaming smiles. It looked like a mark of some kind of achievement. Bard’s eyes found one face in particular, and he felt his heart ram itself against the back of his tongue.

 Tilda had changed already in the two years since Bard saw her. There was a confidence in her eyes, an assertive set to her shoulders—and surely she had shot up another hand’s-breadth at least? Bard stared at her image, blurry and distorted as it was, until he heard Thranduil clear his throat.

“You may download it, if you wish,” he said. Bard moved to do so before Thranduil had finished his sentence. The image was filed away in his computer’s storage. Thranduil’s face reappeared on the screen. “Keep it private. The Council will not be happy if they hear I’m sharing private Temple files with concerned parents.”

“Why are you doing this for me?” Bard asked quietly.

Thranduil’s face remained smooth, but again he seemed to hesitate. “I’m familiar with the sensation of being cut off from one you care about,” he said at last.

Bard wanted to ask him more, yet knew it wasn’t the time. Instead he offered a wry smile. “Well, it’s not going to get me to lower my prices, if that’s what you’re hoping for.”

Thranduil chuckled. It was the first time Bard could remember hearing him laugh. It was a small, brief sound, shrunk from lack of use. Bard liked it. “You drive a hard bargain.”

“Life on Esgaroth will do that to you.”

Thranduil inclined his head. “I will return for the next shipment soon.”

“Very well.” Bard paused. Normally this would be the point where the communication channel would go blank, Thranduil signing out without the courtesy of goodbye. “Until then,” Bard ventured.

A small smile touched Thranduil’s lips, barely even rendered by the holoscreen. “Until then.”

The line went dead. Bard stared at the blank screen for a long time, thoughts tumbling through his mind like the churning deep currents of a river. Slowly, he reached up to the console and summoned back the image of Tilda with her fellow younglings, with that smile he’d never expected to see again.

He stared at his daughter’s face long into the night. It was a cruel gift Thranduil gave him, yet it was all he could have wanted.


	5. Chapter 5

With a final heave, Thranduil and Bard loaded the last of the barrels into the ship’s open cargo hatch. The day was drier and clearer than Thranduil could remember seeing, some patches of a faint purple sky even peering suspiciously from behind the cloud cover. He straightened up, meeting Bard’s smile with a faint one of his own. “This is the largest shipment you’ve had for me yet.”

“Complaining?”

“My back certainly is.” Thranduil wiped the perspiration from his brow as he input the total into his data pad. It was a good day’s work. Stretching his muscles after hours spent jammed into a ship’s tiny cockpit felt good.

Bard leaned in to close the hatch door. “So,” he said, dusting his hands off. “Can I offer you a glass of water?”

Thranduil smiled. “Depends on the vintage.”

It had begun at the same time Thranduil started rolling his sleeves up to help Bard load his ship. On a particularly hot day Bard knew that Thranduil must have worked up a thirst, and half-begrudgingly invited the Jedi in for a drink. When he’d set a glass of water before him Thranduil had laughed in his face.

“What’s funny?” Bard had asked suspiciously. “Don’t they drink water on Coruscant?”

“Oh, sometimes,” Thranduil said, schooling his features in a smile. “But usually when someone offers a drink, it isn’t water.”

Bard had stared at him for a long moment before going into the back rooms of his home and returning with a bottle of Corellian white. He’d set it on the table in front of Thranduil, who merely raised an eyebrow at Bard’s deadpan expression.

“This more up to your standards?” Bard asked dryly.

The man was poking fun at him, of course, but Thranduil picked up the bottle and read the label. “Hm. From that year, not quite. But it will do.”

Bard had pulled out two glasses and poured them each a healthy portion. Fom that day forward it had become their habit to share a drink after getting Thranduil’s ship ready for her return journey. It was hard to believe how things had changed over the months he and Bard had been working together. How a stiff nod had become a begrudging handshake, which had then softened into a warm one. Now he and Bard had built something almost resembling friendship.

“I assume you’ve brought your own again,” Bard commented as he led Thranduil down the pier and into his house. The front door opened onto a large room composed of the kitchen, table, and small living space—a door on the opposite wall led to a short hallway and a square cut out of the ceiling led to the loft. Herbs hung from the ceiling, as well as salvaged pieces of wire and metal that Bard or his children had trawled up by chance from the bottom of the lake. Everything had a dingy look to it, as if the house had been salvaged from the lake-bed itself. Yet by now Thranduil felt nothing but comfortable there.

Thranduil settled at his customary seat at the table. “One taste of what you call wine on this uncivilized rock was enough to last me a lifetime.”

“It puts hair on your chest.”

“And my tongue, by the time I drained my cup.” Thranduil pulled a dark bottle out of his bag and set it on the table. “A fine bottle of Dorwinion.”

 “That means nothing to me.”

“I guarantee it will grow you no additional hair at all.” Thranduil poured them both two glasses, taking a long sip as he let his eyes wander around Bard’s home.  A warmth was growing in his chest before the alcohol touched his lips, an ember he held tenderly within himself. It was strange how the two years since Thranduil first set foot on Esgaroth could make this place feel almost like home. The Jedi Temple had never settled in him that way—it was a place he always returned to, but never a place he could call his own. And neither was this, of course. But somehow knowing Bard was here for him here made it feel like a safe place, a welcome place.

They sat at the table. The remnants of dinner had been shoved into one corner of the kitchen, dirty plates and pans with no machine to wash them. Thranduil found it soothing to watch Bard go about the little manual chores that a life without luxuries required. At times Thranduil offered to help, but Bard always seemed more comfortable working by himself.

Thranduil watched him clear the final dishes away now, and with a faint twinge he thought about the reasons why Bard has grown accustomed to doing so much alone.

“Where are Sigrid and Bain?” he asked, as Bard set out a pair of pewter cups on the table. He opened the bottle skillfully and poured them each a portion.

“Sigrid took him hunting.” At Thranduil’s raised eyebrow, Bard smiled. “The Coruscant local deli was a bit of a trek.”

“Barbarians.”

“Naturally.”

Bard took the first sip of wine, blinked, and then swallowed without so much as a grimace. “That is… interesting.”

“It was very expensive.”

“So now you’re buying me expensive presents? Is this bribery?”

“I’m buying _myself_ expensive presents, actually. You just have a habit of drinking them.”

“What a terrible, terrible man I am.”

Thranduil snorted, a deeply undignified sound—but around Bard, it was difficult to keep his poise. “Yes, I suppose I’ll be very lucky when I get my new assignment. Finally, I can keep my wine to myself.”

Bard’s smile faltered—only for an instant, but it was long enough for Thranduil to realize his mistake. “And I’ll finally get some peace and quiet,” Bard said. His tone was almost convincingly droll. Almost. But of course, they were both thinking about it now, the inevitable shadow that stretched towards them from an inevitable future. After all, it was only a matter of time before Thranduil was sent elsewhere.

“What about the fruits of our labor?” Bard continued. “Are the Jedi finding Esgaroth’s quaint little crystals useful?”

“They continue to refine them,” Thranduil said. “At first those experimenting with them believed they could be used to augment a Jedi’s powers, like some other force-crystals have been known to do—yet the effects of these are unpredictable.” He stared at Bard shrewdly over the lip of his wine glass. An idea had suddenly occurred to him. “You haven’t noticed any strangeness about them, have you?”

“Me?” Bard raised his eyebrows. “What could I have noticed that your Jedi experts would have missed?”

“Probably nothing,” Thranduil admitted. “But I hope that if you do notice something you’ll inform me right away.”

“Actually, if the little green mud-specks suddenly imbued me with fantastical powers, I thought I’d keep it to myself,” Bard said. “They aren’t dangerous, are they?”

“Well they haven’t exploded yet.”

“Perfect. I’ll remember that as I go to sleep knowing I have barrels upon barrels of the things stored underneath my house.”

Their conversation turned to lighter matters from there, Bard’s journeys on his barge, Thranduil’s descriptions of life at the Jedi Temple. They continued chatting through the afternoon, the grey cloud-light from outside the lake slowly darkening as night approached. And yet, it was not so very late, and the windows were very dark. It was only when Thranduil heard the first distant roll of thunder that he sensed the air had changed.

Bard frowned, immediately rising to peer out the window. Thranduil could not hear what he muttered under his breath, but it did not sound like he was complimenting the weather. “Storm’s coming,” he said. “It wasn’t supposed to get here until morning. Patterns must have shifted.”

“Your children—” Thranduil began, but Bard was already unhooking the communicator from the wall. For a while static crackled as Bard struggled to get a solid frequency, the roiling storm-mass like rocks tumbling from within the metal.

But at last, on the heels of a blast of static: “Da?”

“Bain?” Bard’s voice was level, but Thranduil could see the concern in his face. “Are you with your sister?”

A crackling pause. “Yes, we’re alright,” came the response. “The storm’s coming earlier than expected. It’s almost hit us here.”

“Stay exactly where you are. I’m coming to get you,” Bard said. He was already reaching for his coat.

“No, Da, wait—we saw it coming a while off. We stopped with Hilda, and she says we can hold out here.”

Bard’s hand hovered over his coat. “It isn’t safe…”

There was the sound of a muffled argument from the other end of the communicator before a new voice came on. “Da, it’s Sigrid now. What isn’t safe is for _you_ to come out here in a puddle-jumper and get tossed into a tree when the first gales hits.”

“I’m a better pilot than that.”

“Sure you are, Da.” Thranduil could practically hear her eyes rolling good-naturedly. “But let’s not put it to the test this time. Hilda’s house is even sturdier than ours: we’ll be fine. You need to look after yourself.”

Bard stood still for long enough that Thranduil thought he was about to rush out of the house anyways, common sense be damned. But at long last Bard seemed to deflate, leaning against the counter with a sigh. “Alright,” he said. “But keep in contact, okay? _Frequent_ check-ins.”

“Yes, Da,” Sigrid replied. “Stay inside. We’ll be home by tomorrow.”

“Alright. I love you.” Those last words were said softer than the rest, as if they were some private sentiment that Thranduil was not meant to hear. He couldn’t imagine why—Bard had never been quiet with his affection for his children. And yet for some reason now the words sent ripples through Thranduil’s carefully manufactured calm, as if something large had moved just close enough to stir against his skin.

Bard hung up the communicator with a sigh. He dragged his fingers through hair already going grey at the roots—not from too much time, but from too many cares. The look he turned on Thranduil was wry and unhappy.

“You ought to leave now,” he said. “If you get out before the rains come, you’ll have a safe window to the outer atmosphere.”

Thranduil’s fingers toyed with his cup. The silence stretched out between them. “Could I make it into town?”

“The storm is heading up from that direction,” Bard said with a frown. “You’d run the risk of meeting it head on.”

“I had hoped for a night of rest before making the journey back to the Temple.”

Bard blinked. For a moment it seemed that he was about to bite back whatever thought had sprung to mind—but in a rush, he spoke. “You could spend the night here. We have the room, with the kids gone.”

Silence, once again. Deeper and less comfortable this time. Thranduil opened his mouth to reply, then closed it just as quickly. There was no reason why he shouldn’t spend the night here. Yet why did he feel a creeping sense of guilt at the idea, as if he were doing something wrong? It was foolish. He smiled, and tried to make it look less strained than it felt.

“I suppose I could stomach the idea,” he said.

A genuine smirk flit across Bard’s face. “Well then. This ought to be very exciting for you: a taste of our barbarian ways. You’ll have to wash out of an _actual sink_.” Bard headed for the door from the kitchen leading to the rest of the house. “You can take my room—the bed creaks, but it’s more comfortable than the loft.”

“Don’t go to the trouble, I’ll be fine.”

“You’d be singing a different tune come morning if you slept in the loft, I promise you. You’ll take my room, and sleep poorly enough even then.”

Bard’s tone left no room for argument. Thranduil only sighed. “I’m sturdier than I look, you know.”

Bard paused in the doorway. His eyes flicked up and down Thranduil’s considerably tall form. “You look sturdy enough to me,” he said. Thranduil could not interpret his tone. “I’ll get your room ready, and batten down the hatches. You might want to see to your ship.”

Thranduil did as suggested, rushing outside to ensure that all the proper stabilizing programs were in place and grab the small case that contained his overnight provisions. By the time he returned up to pier to the house, the storm was a low growl rolling over the other side of the lake, so thick and dark that the lightning scarcely pierced it. The rain was already beginning, a thin spray that soaked him just as quickly as the fat wet drops they preceded. Thranduil stopped for a moment to watch all the same. The heaviest bulk of the storm rolled out over the lake, and that was when he saw the lightning in full—forks of it shot down to the surface of the water, crawling like hundreds of legs heaving the bulk of the storm cloud towards him. The thought sent a quiet shiver of awe down his spine. The next moment, Bard was shaking him.

“Inside, you idiot!” he cried, dragging Thranduil back towards the house. The fine rain was already becoming sharper, harder—it stung on Thranduil’s skin by the time they reached the threshold, and the first true boom of thunder shattered overhead. Thranduil nearly clapped his hands over his ears at the dull roar of sound. But then Bard was shoving him through the door, and shutting it soundly behind them.

Bard shook his coat off, which was already spawning a miniature lake around his feet. Thranduil glanced down and saw his clothes were no better off. He laughed then, out of surprise and the fading hum of exhilaration. “I’m afraid I’ll flood your whole house.”  

“Who’d have thought that Jedi robes could be so absorbent?” Bard said, tapping Thranduil’s shoulder with a wet slap.

“Nothing but the finest,” Thranduil said. “I brought extra.”

“Good,” Bard said, wiping more water from his brow. “I’ll show you to your bed. Hopefully it will be up to your refined standards.”

“I won’t get my hopes up.”

“You’re an ass.”

“Naturally.”

Thranduil followed him down the dim, narrow hallway. The walls themselves seemed to shudder with the force of the storm—every couple of steps, the lights would begin to flicker alarmingly. Bard took no notice. For all the chaos trying to muscle its way inside, Thranduil felt a stillness emanating from Bard that he could not fully explain. The air felt thick, as if any words they might try to speak to each other would be smothered on their lips. He had never been in this part of Bard’s house before, not once over the two years they had known each other. He had quite literally crossed a boundary, stepped into a part of Bard’s life he had never seen before.

Bard held a door open for him at the end of the hall. “It’s not much,” he said, and Thranduil almost paused at the note of anxiety in Bard’s voice. It had been the same way between them when they first began opening to each other, their friendship growing like a sapling in the shade. Every step towards each other was hesitant.  

Thranduil turned his eyes to Bard’s room. It was indeed not much at all, scarcely enough space to walk into and turn around without banging into the bed. Personal embellishments were few—a family picture sat on the single dresser, a few items of clothing tossed over drawers. Crates that were piled up on one side of the room that almost completely devoured all the floor space.

“It’s a little cramped,” Bard said dryly from behind him. Perhaps he was eyeing Thranduil’s height once more. There was a note in his voice that was daring Thranduil to complain, to mock what little the man had.

“I’ll manage.” Thranduil hadn’t looked away from the crates. They were covered in canvas for the most part, but one stack was near enough that he could just catch a glimpse beneath the folds. Curiously, he lifted a finger to push it back. He saw a very distinct label, one he hadn’t seen in—

Bard quickly stepped forward and smoothed the canvas down again. Thranduil could feel his tension, the sick feeling that roiled in Bard’s stomach. So. It wasn’t just having a near-stranger in his house that made the man so jumpy. 

“I was under the impression that Mandalorian _tihaar_ was strictly banned on this planet.” Thranduil kept his voice conversational, letting his hand fall back to his side. Bard met his eyes without hesitation, although Thranduil could sense the tension coming off him like an electric hum.

“Business isn’t good enough to support my family without some kind of supplementation,” he said quietly.

“And by supplementation you of course mean smuggling. You do know how to keep yourself busy.”

“Thranduil,” Bard began, then stopped himself. He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, and in that moment Thranduil realized exactly how vulnerable he was.

“I could ruin you,” Thranduil said aloud, and Bard looked up sharply. “All it would take would be one communication to the authorities on this planet, a single tip. You’d lose everything.”

Thranduil watched Bard’s face approach the color of pond scum. He opened his mouth uselessly a couple of times before he managed to get the words out. “And… are you going to do that?”

Thranduil sighed, shaking his head regretfully. “Above all else, I’m disappointed in you. This whole time you’ve been serving me watered down mead when you’ve had the good stuff a couple rooms.”

Bard blinked. It was only as he saw the slow smile dawning over Thranduil’s face that the fear dropped off his face. “Oh, you are _unbelievable_.”

Thranduil chuckled, raising his hands in capitulation. “My apologies. I couldn’t resist. The chance to hold you over the burners for a moment was far too tempting.”

“Oh, well, by no means exercise self-restraint when it involves threatening to destroy my livelihood,” Bard muttered.

Thranduil shook his head ruefully. “Bard, please. You ought to know me better than that by now.”

“I really don’t,” Bard said, his voice quieter than it was before. “You won’t go to the authorities, then?”

“I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Bard tilted his head, crossed his arms. “And why not? I’m breaking the law. Isn’t it your job to maintain order in the galaxy?”

Thranduil leaned back on the doorframe, tilting his head with a pensive air. “One thing I have learned over the years is that order is only maintained by allowing a small amount of chaos. Life is not composed of orderly cells all performing their functions without variation. It needs a little bit of change, a little bit of instability, or else it is indistinguishable from death.”

Bard snorted. “Quite the philosopher.”

“It’s what they teach us. Your daughter will be learning much of the same.”

Mentioning Tilda slipped out before Thranduil could think the better of it, yet Bard actually smiled. “She’d probably enjoy it. She always was asking _why, why, why_ , coming up with her own reasons and theories when I couldn’t answer her.” He sighed, but it wasn’t the sound of a heavy misery falling past his lips. “I suppose I ought to thank you. You’re being… oddly merciful, right now.”

“‘Oddly’? Are you implying that I’m usually a tyrant?”

“Oh, I would never imply anything.” Bard’s eyes gleamed with a smile. Yet from the way he studied Thranduil’s face, there was some deeper current running through him. It took all of Thranduil’s will not to reach out and sift through it, to follow the line of Bard’s feelings to what they hid beneath the surface. He allowed people their privacy of their own heads whenever possible. Yet in times like these, it was tempting to bend the rules and dig deeply. Whatever it was that tugged at the edges of Bard’s expression, Thranduil wanted to know what it was. Very badly.

“Well.” Bard cleared his throat. “I appreciate your discretion, of course.”

Thranduil nodded. “You can trust me with this.”

“I do.” The emotion in Bard’s voice denied all doubt. Thranduil found himself smiling. There was a strange warmth in his chest, different from the usual hints of fear and anger his training had taught him to discarding. This, he did not cast away. He let it sit there, smoldering inside of him, even as Bard turned back to the door with a smile.

“The storm will blow over by morning,” he said, but with the wind groaning and heaving at the walls outside, it was almost difficult to believe.

“If I make it until then,” Thranduil said with a glance of feigned apprehension at the shuttered window. He felt as if they would both be trapped in the confines of this house, cut off from everyone and everything, forever. The idea did not disturb him as much as it should have.

“The storm is nothing to worry about. It’s the bedbugs that will eat you alive,” Bard said, deadpan.

“Oh, it’s just bedbugs? I was expecting some strain of exotic plague.”

“Who knows, you might get lucky.” Bard’s eyes bunched up in a smile that held much back. “I’ll be in the loft, if you start coughing up blood.” Bard hesitated for a moment longer. He seemed to make up his mind. He reached out to squeeze Thranduil’s shoulder. Once, gently, and only for a moment—then his hand slid away again, leaving only its imprint branded into Thranduil’s skin beneath the weight of his robes.

“Goodnight, Thranduil,” Bard murmured as he stepped towards the door.

“Goodnight,” Thranduil replied, finding his words almost too late as Bard closed the door behind himself.

Thranduil lay awake in bed for a long time that night, listening to the storm shake the house like a starship entering a rough atmosphere. He smoothed his hand against the sheets and thought of Bard laying down in this bed, night after night for most of the man’s life. He felt as if Bard himself were still in the room with him, the weight of memories pressing in like a physical presence. Perhaps that was why sleep left Thranduil wanting.

It had been a long time since he’d had any trouble finding unconsciousness. He told himself it was just the storm. He was even less certain of why he wanted to rise from bed and find Bard in the loft, or what he would say when he did. Thranduil rolled over, closed his eyes. Inside, the clear pool of his mind had turned to lashing waves.

He left as soon as the storm calmed long before the dawn, scribbling a hasty note on the counter and telling himself Bard would understand. The controls of his ship felt awkward and unwieldy beneath his hands as he guided it off the ground. Thranduil tried to imagine himself tethering the unease in his mind to the surface of the planet shrinking behind him, where they would remain tucked away and secret. Slowly, his mind grew calm once more.


	6. Chapter 6

Bard kept a steady hand on the tiller as he guided his barge around the mounds of tangled vegetation rising out of the Lake’s still waters. The hoverdrive had been working smoothly for a change after the droid had taken a crack at repairing it; Bard kept the barge just high enough so that its hull barely ghosted over the water’s surface, avoiding the snarls and twisted roots that waited to tear the metal out just below the surface. He hadn’t been able to make it this far away from open water since the hover capabilities had failed in the first place. He hoped that in the meantime his old contacts had been finding plenty of girion-emeralds.

Something in Bard’s pocket crinkled as he moved. With a frown, he pulled out a piece of paper—Thranduil’s note. The sight of it made his chest contract. He must have absent-mindedly slipped it into his coat on the way out of the door. Holding it in his hand now, he couldn’t help but reread it:

_Bard—I’m sorry to leave without waking you. I’m determined to be a poor guest at every turn, it seems. The storm is breaking now, and I must be on my way. I hope I can thank you properly when next we see each other. In the meantime, I seem to have discovered a small colony of rocks that have emigrated into your mattress. For your own sake, buy a better one._

_—Thranduil_

Bard couldn’t help but sigh. Waking up to find the Jedi gone had left a gnawing sensation just behind his ribs. He had climbed down from the loft early that morning with the intent of catching Thranduil sleeping just to wake him up. He’d scarcely seen Thranduil as anything but carefully composed; he’d imagined that pale hair tossed over the pillows of his own bed, Thranduil’s eyes shut and his face smooth not from rigid control, but from the gentleness of sleep.

Opening his door to the empty bed had been like a slap in the face. As the sting of disappointment throbbed, he began to suspect he deserved it. He was pushing boundaries, toeing lines. In the end, Thranduil was nothing more than a Jedi assigned to work with him. They could never truly be more than that.

Staring down at the rediscovered note in his hand, Bard had half a mind to toss it overboard. There was no reason to keep it. And yet he stuffed it back into his pocket all the same, taking some perverse and pathetic comfort from the fact that he held it near.

A shape too dense and wide to be another copse of trees loomed out of the haze of misting rain before him. He eased off the throttle and hoverdrive, taking the barge down into the patch of open water near the foot of the hulking shape. The house was hardly identifiable as such until Bard was nearly on top of it. It looked more like the wreckage of a starship than a place where people lived. Yet as he killed the barge’s engines he saw a light flickering on behind one of the windows, a face pressing to the glass before whisking away again. Scarcely a moment later the front door had been thrown open to reveal a stocky woman with her hands on her hips regard Bard with a  wide grin.

“Well look who decided to turn up at last,” Hilda said with a laugh. “I was beginning to think you’d finally gotten off this desolate rock.”

“And leave all the best fishing waters to you? Can’t get rid of me that easily,” Bard replied. Hilda offered him a hand, tugging him from his barge to the pier with surprising strength. “How are you, Hilda?”

“As good as could be hoped,” she replied. “Sigurd is in the house, lazy wretch that he is. Probably worried you have some cargo for him to carry. Come, have some coffee with us.”

Smiling, Bard could not help but comply. The walkway up to Hilda’s house was slippery in the falling mist, but as soon as he stepped inside the air was warm and dry. Her house was lit by warm flickering lights, everything cluttered and well-used. Her husband Sigurd was sitting with his feet by the heat reactor which powered their electricity, a ratty book propped up between his fingers. He turned to Bard with an expression of good-natured surprise.

“Bard. Grab a chair,” he said, as if their last meeting had been only days ago.

Before long Hilda and Sigurd had wrapped Bard up in the familiar Lake-wide gossip, which warmed him up and brought a wry smile to his face even faster than the thick bitter brew they drank. Buying, selling, and moving shipments around the planet may not have paid well, but it was days like these that reminded Bard why he liked what he did in the first place.

“But I suppose you didn’t come here to hear about local fishing violations,” Hilda said at long last. “We’ve nothing we need sent or delivered anywhere today—are you after anything yourself?”

“As a matter of fact, I am,” Bard said. “I don’t suppose you’ve come across any girion-emeralds in recent days?”

“In recent days, no. But I never throw the things away, useless as they are. They seem like good luck, don’t you think? But nothing’s better luck than a pocket full of credits.” She rose to her feet and picked her way through the crowded living space, disappearing behind a curtain only to reappear moments later with a large wooden crate in her sturdy arms.

“Here,” she said with a grunt as she plunked it down at Bard’s feet. “You can look through this and see if there’s anything you might be interested in.”

It was better than Bard could have hoped. As he lifted the lid, he was met by enough glittering green inside that it looked as if a colony of iridescent beetles had taken up residence in Hilda’s crate. There were emeralds of every size and shape, their strange knobby appearance no less beautiful.

“I remember this one,” Hilda said, plucking a large emerald from the top and holding it against the light. “Found it inside a fish’s belly. And this one flew out of the net as I hauled it onto the deck and nearly put Sigurd’s eye out.”

“Wretched thing,” Sigrid said good-naturedly.

“This is wonderful, Hilda,” Bard said. “You’re telling me this whole crate is for sale?”

“Well I wouldn’t have brought the whole thing out otherwise, would I? My back doesn’t do well with heavy lifting these days you know.”

Bard smiled in spite of himself. “Then in that case I guess we’d better settle on a price.”

“Oh, lord,” Sigurd muttered. “I might as well toss a knife between you two and let you go at it, then.”

But they arrived at a decent price quickly enough all the same. Bard could afford to offer her more than usual, with his income from the Temple to supplement him. Both of them parted ways once again having gotten what they wanted.

Bard guided the boat out onto the smooth expanse of the Lake itself, breaking free of the swampland and tangled trees at last. Out here, the air was always cool and damp, but at rare times a faint glimpse of a rosy sun might slip past the clouds above. For a moment Bard paused there and simply allowed himself to enjoy the peace the lake afforded. Without realizing it, his hand had crept back to the pocket which contained Thranduil’s letter.

He brought it out and read it again, absent-mindedly reaching down to the crate of emeralds he’d purchased from Hilda as his eyes skimmed the words. Their strange shape beneath his fingers was almost soothing. He set the letter down on his knee and picked out the largest crystal he could find—it sat in his palm, pretty but unobtrusive. Half of him wondered whether the Council’s interest in them would pay off in the end at all. Perhaps they were just baubles.

With a mental shrug, Bard picked up the letter and made to tuck it and the stone into his pocket. His hand froze in the motion. A cold dizziness had settled down on his head, as if the faint prickling rain had somehow crept inside his skull. Dark spots swam before his eyes. He squeezed them shut to clear them. And yet when he closed his eyes it wasn’t darkness he saw—rather a light, the color blue, a happiness so intense it was almost indistinguishable from terror. When he opened his eyes again, the sensations were all gone. All that lingered was a faint smell in the air, like salt and dried flowers.

Bard shook his head to clear it. He’d had similar fits before, back when he was a child—not for years, though, and never so strong. He stared at the stone in his hand with faint suspicion. But surely it was coincidence, a quirk of his childhood triggered by the lingering energy of the storm. Such an excuse sounded foolish even to him, but it was the only excuse he could think of.

After a moment’s hesitation Bard tossed the emerald in his hand back into its crate, and closed it tightly. If it happened again, he would tell Thranduil. For now, it would remain only another strange occurrence in a life that grew stranger by the day.


	7. Chapter 7

The Jedi Council’s silence was not a comfortable one. Thranduil stood with his head bowed, his hands held in the sleeves of his robes. He could feel their eyes on him, thoughtful, inspecting him from every side. Even the eerie blue of the holographs seemed to radiate mild distrust. He rose above it. His mind was clear, cool, and as calm as befitted a member of his order.

“That is truly your decision?” Master Galadriel asked. “Admittedly, this Council finds that… surprising.” It was the first the Council had spoken since Thranduil declined their offer.

Thranduil smiled, placid as ever. “I will do as the Council wishes. But if the decision is mine… no. I feel I am doing good work where I am now.”

He saw some of the Council members exchange looks. A curl of nervousness stirred in the pit of Thranduil’s stomach—he made his mind go blank, strangling the emotion out. He could show no signs of uncertainty. If the Masters sensed the upheaval in his mind, they would reassign him immediately and say it was for his own good.

“When we first gave you this assignment you seemed very eager to be elsewhere,” Master Gandalf commented.

Thranduil had an explanation on hand. “I believed myself above it. I now see that the purpose of the assignment was to teach me humility, and it seems to be working.”

Master Elrond sat back in his chair with a cool smile. “Then what more reason is there for you to continue with it?”

“This Council knows me well—is humility a lesson they think likely to stick?” Chuckles from a few of the friendlier Masters. Thranduil inclined his head. “Truthfully, my reason for wanting to continue is simple. I have found contentment with this assignment, a peace and simplicity I have lacked for some time. I am not eager to give it up. But of course, if the Council believes it best, I will do as they command.” He almost winced at his final words. He was bending too easily. They would surely suspect something.

And yet the Council members were nodding to each other, their expressions growing untroubled. “Very well,” Master Galadriel continued at last. “You may continue. But the Council needs not remind you to ensure that your leanings towards this planet do not become an attachment.”

Thranduil took a slow, stabilizing breath through his nose. “You are correct. The Council needs not remind me.”

Perhaps that showed enough of his usual self to reassure them. They sent him onwards without further trouble.

 

 

Thranduil found himself wandering the halls of the Temple on the way back to his quarters. As they so often had over the previous years, he found his steps taking him to the Temple’s training quarters. His eyes skimmed blindly over the smallest of the younglings still learning how to sense the images on the other side of a screen. His wanderings took him to the higher sections, where the mediation balconies opened onto views of the city. He found himself standing at a doorway, one of many, but he sensed it was the one he was looking for.

Within, a small group of Padawan learners sat facing out of a window, their backs to the door. They were silent, their hands on their knees, meditating. Behind them the sun was beginning to sink low, a bright orange burst against the ragged skyline of Coruscant, swarming with speeders and lights just beginning to flicker on. It was not an image to inspire peace, and yet the Padawans did not fidget. In this room, the bustle of the city could have been lightyears away. Thranduil’s eyes settled on one Padawan in particular, observing with detachment the firm set of her back, the braid falling over the front of her shoulder. It was strange to remember a time when she had been so much smaller, back when Thranduil and her father had only just learned to dislike each other. Stranger still to think that he was watching Tilda grow up when her own father would never get the chance. But of course, that was why he was here. To offer Bard what pieces of Tilda’s childhood he could salvage.

A light touch on his shoulder made him tense; when he turned around it was only Tauriel. He had no opportunity to feel relief that she wasn’t one of the Council members come to accuse him of attachment to Bard’s child. The look in Tauriel’s eyes was equal parts concern and accusation.

Without risking a word that might disturb the Padawan learners’ concentration, she gestured down the hallway for Thranduil to follow. They walked in silence, even long after they had left the Padawan’s quarters behind. At long last Tauriel paused in an empty doorway, and looked at Thranduil with tired eyes.

“You’ve been going to see her often, haven’t you?” she said.

Thranduil kept his expression blank. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I didn’t say you have.” But of course, she hadn’t needed to. “What did the Council want with you today?”

“They were suggesting a new assignment.”

“Ah. Well. I’m glad to hear it.” Tauriel’s expression actually brightened—until she saw the look on Thranduil’s face. “…You didn’t accept it, did you?”

Thranduil shook his head.

Tauriel sighed, looked away. The light from the window was turning as red as her hair as it crept lower down the opposite wall. “This is getting dangerous for you, Thranduil.”

Thranduil laughed. “Dangerous? She’s a child.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.” Her eyes were hard now. He refused to look away.

“Tauriel, I look in on his daughter as a professional courtesy—”

“There’s nothing professional or courteous about it. You are growing overly attached.”

Thranduil turned around, stalking a few feet away to stare out the window. His breathing was even, his muscles relaxed—only his heart gave him away, pounding furiously in his temples as it was. This time, he couldn’t quiet it. “And if I am?” he demanded. “If we care for nothing at all, what good are we to the universe?”

“So you _do_ care for him.”

“You are twisting my words.”

“Merely repeating them, actually. Perhaps it is your thinking that has grown twisted.”

Thranduil turned around, sharp words leaping to the tip of his tongue—until he saw Tauriel’s face. There was no cruelty in it; merely pity. It turned his stomach. He had trained her too well, it seemed. She practiced the Jedi Code better than he did. 

“You must trust me, Tauriel,” he said, though he had yet to believe the words himself.

“I do,” she replied, her voice very tired. “Please don’t prove me wrong.”

 

 

When next the time came for Thranduil to return to Esgaroth, he avoided Bard’s house. He guided his ship down the largest of the nearby lakes, its surface smooth despite the prickle of an early-morning drizzle in the air. He touched down at a remote location on the shores of the lake, climbed down onto the marshy ground, and for a long while stood staring out over the water. The lake was as grey as the sky, twin pieces of slate. Thranduil stared at a point between them and tried to clear his mind. He knew he could find the balance once again. Tauriel was wrong.

After a while, he returned to his ship to make the brief crossing to Bard’s house. Any calm he had managed to cultivate disappeared almost instantly as he saw Bard waiting for him.  He was outside, leaning on the barrels lined up for shipment, a wry smile on his face. Thranduil wanted to dig past that expression and find what was waiting underneath. And yet he could do nothing but smile, and step forward to clasp Bard’s hand in greeting as had become their custom.

“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming,” Bard said. “I had already mentally written a letter of complaint.”

“Oh? Care to recite an excerpt?”

“It was pretty scathing. I’d hate to hurt your feelings.” Bard twisted over his shoulder towards the house, gestured with an arm. “Bain! Sigrid! Help us load up!”

The two children scurried out of the door, mumbling greetings to Thranduil as they began. Thranduil set in beside them to make the work go faster. Between the four of them they had his ship loaded and ready within an hour. Bard did not even ask Thranduil if he would accompany him into the house—he merely held the door open behind him, correctly assuming Thranduil would follow.

“Are you hungry?” Bard asked as Thranduil settled at his familiar place at the table. “Bain had some good luck fishing on the lake today. There’ll be plenty to spare.” Bard ruffled his son’s hair as Bain walked by, earning a good-natured grumble. Sigrid was at the counter, expertly gutting and cleaning the fish before passing them off to her brother to begin preparing them to cook—Bard took his place at a cutting board, peeling thick brown roots. If Thranduil closed his eyes, he could practically feel the warmth of their three heartbeats filling up the room, tender, delicate, all as one. So this is what it meant to have a family. But Thranduil could only observe it from the outside, and tell himself he belonged.

He had remained silence in the face of Bard’s question for too long. Bard glanced at him over his shoulder, a smile and the beginnings of a dry remark on his lips—the moment he saw Thranduil’s face, both died. Thranduil quickly schooled his expression as quickly as he could, making his face smooth and untroubled. Before Bard could ask what was wrong, he spoke. “Yes. Of course. I would be happy to dine with you tonight.”

Bard did not comment on Thranduil’s uncharacteristic lack of irony. He merely nodded and turned back to his work, a troubled shadow on his brow.

The meal passed companionably enough, Bard and Sigrid speaking of their time on the lake, fishing and checking the traps. For a while Thranduil let himself fade into the gentle cadence of their lives. Inevitably he remembered that someday soon he would leave it all behind. It was only a matter of time before the Council did eventually transfer him. He would have no excuse to visit Bard again, no reason to sit in a warm kitchen eating food that Bain had overcooked and listening to bland smalltalk about life on the Lake. When he looked on himself with detachment, he could see how insignificant it all was.

He could not remember ever enjoying a meal more.

Such thoughts kept him quiet and subdued at the table, and after the plates had all been cleared away Bard invited him out for an evening stroll, Thranduil had no thoughts of denying him.

“So,” Bard said as they made their way down the darkening paths, their feet sinking into the wet ground as they walked. “Are you going to tell me what the matter is, or do I have to pry?”

Thranduil stared at the tangled trees that rose up around them rather than meet Bard’s questioning gaze. “I am not sure that I ought to. There’s nothing you can do to help.”

“Let me be the judge of that.” Bard stopped him with a soft touch to his arm, gesturing towards a low-slung shape in the darkness—a bench carved out of a fallen tree, Thranduil realized, overlooking a gap in the tree line through which the lake could be seen. It was little more than a bank of fog by this time of day, a chilly, dreary sight. Thranduil settled down beside him with a quiet sigh, and stared out at it for a long time.

“It’s clear that you’re unhappy,” Bard said at last. “I thought I might offer a home remedy.” He pulled something out of his bag—a bottle. When Thranduil saw the label, his eyes widened.

“The last of the _tihaar_ ,” Bard said. “I kept back a bottle for you.”

“That is certainly a powerful cure,” Thranduil said.

“With the expression that was on your face for all of dinner, I figured it was needed.”

They settled back on the bench, Bard producing two small cups which he filled with a two fingers of green liquid each. From the moment Thranduil lifted the glass to his mouth he made a face. "Smells awful."

"Nothing but the best for you." Bard knocked it back with a grimace. "Laketown medicine."

It took every fiber of Thranduil’s ingrained Jedi resolve to stop his own face from screwing up into a mask of revulsion as he drank the alcohol down. "It's a wonder any of you survived to adulthood,” Thranduil said, reaching to pour himself and Bard another glass. They stared out into the grey-blue darkness, drinking quietly. Thranduil could already feel the alcohol begin to burn away at the edges of his concentration. It was pleasant. His hold on his own emotions was growing looser by the moment, and for once he found he did not care.

“Some say that to be a Jedi is a great gift,” Thranduil mused aloud. “But we are given only potential; to live up to it comes at a great price.”

Bard was quiet beside him. Thinking of his daughter, no doubt. “And was it worth the price?”

“I’m not done paying. No Jedi ever is.” Thranduil leaned forward, slowly draining his cup though the taste of the alcohol on his tongue was near-agony when savored. “The answer I should give you is yes; it is worth it. But lately…” He shook his head. “Jedi are not permitted to form attachments,” he began anew. He could sense Bard’s confusion at his wandering thoughts, but the words Thranduil sought would not come easily. “To places, to things, to people. A Jedi must always be in balance. Close friendship, even love, inevitably tip the scales. And when that happens…” Thranduil spread his free hand helplessly. “If the Force is a presence that binds us together, the Dark Side is a void; an open pit that needs only wait for us to slide into it. That darkness itself does not call to us. All too often it is the good in the world that seduces us to step over its edge.”

“Do you think about how your life might have been different?” Bard asked. “If you never became a Jedi in the first place?”

Thranduil smoothed his hand over the carved wood they sat on. He saw himself with a simple job, merely a task to support himself. He… could not see himself with a family, for the concept was too unfamiliar. Instead he pictured Bard’s. Being with them, being a part of them, standing by Bard’s side with no reason why he shouldn’t be there always. “I try not to.”

“Thranduil…” He could feel Bard’s eyes on him as he filled his cup once again. “What is all this about?”

Thranduil sat quietly for a moment. He reached over and filled Bard’s cup, twice as much as Bard had originally given himself.  “The Council is going to reassign me soon.”

He could sense Bard’s shock beside him, a sudden snarl of emotion tangling up in his thoughts. Thranduil did his best not to look too closely. “You know this for a fact?”

“Yes. They have already offered me a change in position. Soon they will no longer be asking.” Thranduil was not quite certain why he was saying anything at all—it was not wise, it was not even proper. But of course, so much of his relationship with Bard was neither of those things.

He chanced a look at the man beside him. Bard was staring at the lake too, seeing nothing—his jaw was tense, his eyes haunted. “When?”

“I can’t be sure.”

“Well,” he said, turning back to Thranduil with a false smile. “I suppose congratulations are in order, then. You’ll finally get a chance to get off this desolate rock.” Bard reached out to clasp his shoulder, the grip unnaturally tight. “I’m happy for you,” he said. “Truly I am.”

Thranduil stared at him with nothing short of disbelief. His own thoughts were chaotic, a desperate tumble of color and motion Thranduil could not follow. “Don’t be a fool.”

Bard blinked. His smile, when it came, was crooked. “Fair enough.” He raised his glass to his lips, then recalled it was empty. He lifted the bottle as if to refill his glass but simply took a long swig. He offered the bottle to Thranduil next, a faint flush rising in his cheeks as the alcohol saturated his blood. “This might be our last night together, then. Might as well make it a memorable one.”

Thranduil accepted the bottle. “It’s entirely possible we’ll have many more nights like this one.”

“True. But we’ve already got the bottle out.”

“If I have much more of this ‘medicine’ I’m likely to live to a ripe old age of three hours from now,” Thranduil murmured. Still, he took a long drink, feeling it burn his way down his throat and possibly through the lining of his stomach.

“That is vile,” he said, passing the bottle back to Bard and trying to ignore the man’s laughter. His face already felt hot.

Bard drank twice as long as Thranduil had and lowered the bottle with a flourish. “You’ll get the hang of it. There’s still plenty left to practice with.”

“Oh joy,” Thranduil said dryly, yet he took another drink all the same.

It wasn’t nearly as long as it should have been before they had almost finished the bottle. Mostly they drank in companionable silence, with the great dark rift of Thranduil’s undetermined departure yawning between them. It had been a long time since Thranduil had allowed himself such an indulgence—his head felt as if it were full of cotton, hot and comfortable with no room for thought. Bard’s face was warm, his eyes bright, but there was a fever in him that Thranduil felt beneath his own skin as well. He didn’t need to sense the man’s emotions to know that they were teetering on the edge of a thing he couldn’t name but which waited for them at the bottom of the bottle.

At long last Thranduil drained the dregs, setting it down on the ground with a sense of finality. Bard gave him a round of mock applause, slightly undercut by the way he swayed.

“Knew you had it in you,” he said.

“Shouldn’t have done it anyways,” Thranduil murmured. His focus kept skidding out from under him like the legs of a newborn colt.

“I’m glad you did. Not everyday I get to see an esteemed Jedi so totally sloshed.”

“Enjoy it while it lasts.”

Bard stared at him blearily, his smile evaporating into the cool evening air. “You’ll be able to visit, won’t you? Not so often, of course. But once in a while… it would mean a lot.” He cleared his throat. “The children have grown a bit fond. They like hearing about how their sister is doing.”

Thranduil smiled. It was not an expression of happiness. “I would want nothing more than that.”

“…But.”

“ _But_. If the council were to discover I had returned, well. They would see it as evidence of inappropriate attachments. Such things can be dangerous for a Jedi.” Thranduil brought a hand up to his face, pressing his cool fingertips to a temple. His skin felt hot under his own touch. He stared out towards the lake as he had hour before, but the surface was veiled and peace was impossible to find. “It hasn’t happened yet, Bard.”

“But it will happen.”

“We still have time.”

Bard’s mouth twisted. “Time for what?”

Thranduil shrugged. The motion almost threatened to dislodge him from the bench, which seemed to roll beneath him as if they were adrift in a storm. “Time for this.”

“This,” Bard echoed. He dragged a hand over his face, his eyes closed. “It’s not just you I’ll lose when the Council calls you away,” he said.

Sorrow that Thranduil could not smooth away rose up to seize his throat. “Bard… I’m sorry.”

Bard didn’t look at him. “Don’t be,” he said, his voice oddly blank. “I’m used to losing people by now.”

Thranduil was quiet for a long moment. “Your wife?” he said at last.

Bard nodded. “Tilda’s was a difficult birth. Medical on this planet is spotty at best. It happened. It was a long time ago.” He reached for the bottle seemingly on impulse, only to realize it was empty. He tossed it aside with a bitter laugh. “I’m sorry. I never talk about this. Please, forget I said anything.”

Thranduil listened to the man’s harsh breathing as Bard struggled to pull himself back under control. “I too have lost someone,” Thranduil said quietly. Bard turned to him in surprise. Before Thranduil could think the better of it, he forced himself to continue. “A Padawan’s bond with the Master that trains them is very strong. I was devoted to my Master, and she taught me all that I know. Even after I passed my test to become a Jedi Knight in full, our connection was stronger than most. We worked together, knew the other’s strengths and weaknesses as well as we knew our own. When she took another youngling, Legolas, to be her Padawan, we practically mentored him together. It was not wholly appropriate—I was too attached. I did not realize the extent of it until she was killed in the line of duty.”

“What happened to her?” Bard prompted gently.

“She took Legolas on an assignment without me,” Thranduil said dully. “Routine. Smoothing over some political difficulties that seemed too simple to justify both of our presences.  While she was there, a fringe group set off a detonator at the government building she was in. She was one of many killed.”

He felt Bard’s hand settle on his shoulder, a comforting weight that Thranduil leaned into. “Legolas survived,” he continued. He could not seem to stop. “Everyone expected me to take Legolas on as my own apprentice. I wanted nothing more—but I couldn’t do it. Not when every time I looked at him it only reminded me of what we had lost. In the end, I could only push Legolas away. It was almost a relief when he learned that he had been sent far away, to train with Master Aragorn on Eriador. I have not seen him since.”

Memories surged, and as addled as his mind was, he was unable to hold them back. He had _felt_ the moment she died, as if a piece of his own flesh had been torn away and left his strength and life bleeding out in its wake. He didn’t need to remember how it felt. He never truly stopped feeling it.

He felt Bard’s hand settle on his shoulder, a comforting weight that Thranduil leaned into. Thranduil forced himself to focus on that touch alone, let it bring him back into the present. “For a while I was not myself,” Thranduil said quietly. “I became unhinged. A dangerous state for anyone to be in, let alone a Jedi. I knew I had to let go of the pain, that I would never be able to return to the balance, but…” Thranduil fell silent.

“It’s so hard to let it go.” Bard’s hand had tightened on his shoulder. “When it’s the last piece of them you have left.” 

Bard’s words hit Thranduil’s chest like a discharged blaster. When he looked at Bard in the growing darkness, he knew with a sudden and complete certainty that the man understood him better than anyone ever before. Their loss might not have been the same, but it carved similar shapes inside of them.

“Better in the end not to have cared at all, don’t you agree?” Thranduil said bitterly.

“That would be a safer life, perhaps. Grey and shapeless. No pain and no joy either.”

“Perfect balance,” Thranduil said hollowly. “Such is the way of the Jedi.” 

He saw Bard look away, close his eyes. The gulf between them seemed to open up like the mouth of a sarlaac pit, ready to swallow them both. “I understand why you will need to leave,” Bard said at last, opening his eyes to fix Thranduil with a look of fevered intensity. “When the time comes for you to go, I… I will not stand in your way.” Thranduil could feel the man’s emotions battering him like a storm—through the haze in his own head, he could not block them out. Confusion, sadness, the hint of buried anger. Looking at Bard’s face and feeling his true feelings eddying beneath it, Thranduil felt as if he were being pulled apart like the fibers of a frayed rope. He had to look away.

“But that doesn’t mean I want you to.” Bard’s voice was hoarse. Thranduil turned toward it. Something was happening. The man’s thoughts came in choppy waves, but Thranduil was caught in their rhythm. He turned, and Bard turned, and Thranduil leaned forward without knowing why—but he did know, didn’t he, knew exactly why he did what he did even as Bard pulled him into what could have been an embrace, clumsy, drunken, two people clutching at each other as if they could trap time and distance between their bodies. Bard nose pressed into the corner of his jaw. Thranduil let his fingers slide up into the man’s hair, never thinking why, never letting himself—and when Bard turned his head, when their mouths came together, he did not think then, either.

Bard’s mouth was warm and soft against his, slow and clumsy, a brush of warmth that hesitated and then pressed, pressed _hard_ , coming together as if they had been born to do this, just this and nothing else.

Thranduil’s mind went utterly smooth. Had he known peace like this? Could he ever have claimed to know the way of the Jedi before the utter peace of this moment? Yet it was only the eye of the storm, and he felt it raging all around him. In a moment Bard’s lips on his were brimming with desperation. Thranduil leaned into them, fumbling, uncertain, but Bard knew what to do and he did it, opening up and pressing in, teeth and tongue and quick hot breaths, hands digging into clothes and hairs, the scrape of nails on skin, the taste of alcohol—

When Bard pulled away, breathing heavily and wide-eyed, it couldn’t have been more than a couple of seconds later. He swayed a few inches from Thranduil’s face, hands still grasping Thranduil by his robes—for a moment he thought the man was going to lean in and kiss him again. But then his hands slid away, and he stood up, took a step back, and covered his face his with his hands. Thranduil stared at him, feeling the cold where Bard’s body had been, as if an icy unbearable silence had slipped against his skin in his place.

At long last Bard let his hands drop, but he did not turn around. “I don’t know why I did that.” His words were empty, addressed to the tree line.

It was a long moment more before Thranduil trusted his voice to speak. “It’s alright.”

“No it isn’t. After everything you just told me… Forgive me. Please, please forgive me.”

Any other time Thranduil might have laughed, jokingly agreed. But this was different. This was dangerous. Bard’s voice was fraught, and he hadn’t yet so much as looked Thranduil’s way. As if the very sight of Thranduil repulsed him.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Thranduil said hoarsely. “We’ve both had a lot to drink.”

That seemed to give Bard some relief. He turned around, blinking in Thranduil’s direction through the gloom without fully looking at him. “You’re right. I wasn’t thinking, I wasn’t—I wasn’t myself.” He could hear Bard clinging to that idea like a lifeline. “I know you can’t do that, can’t be that. With me.”

“With anyone,” Thranduil said automatically. That made Bard meet his eyes at last, a quick stab before he quickly looked away. A dull pain was building in Thranduil’s chest now, red and dull and speeding towards him like an avalanche, and he had to do something before it hit. “Bard, if I could… if things were different…”

“I know,” Bard said, too quickly. “I know. We can’t do this. I—I know.” His hands reached up to smooth his hair back, and Thranduil could see them trembling. “I’m sorry to put you in this position.”

“Don’t apologize.” Thranduil’s voice was too sharp, he could hear it himself—Bard looked at him again, and this time his eyes did not slip away. Thranduil took a steadying breath that shook him all the worse. “I wish…” The sentence trailed off into nothing. There was no way the end it without betraying someone.

“Yes,” Bard said. He nodded, stiffly. “Me too.”

Thranduil rose to his feet, feeling the ground seem to shift and sway beneath him. Part of him wanted to step forward, to reach out to Bard once more. But that part was farther away now, and the pain blossoming in his chest was beginning to take control. “The Council was right,” he said dully. “I have grown too attached.”

It was dark enough now that he could not see Bard’s face clearly. For that he was almost grateful. He wouldn’t have reached for the man’s mind even if he possessed the faculties to do so. “Will you request the transfer?” Bard asked.

“No. But I cannot allow this to happen again.”

“It won’t. I promise you.”

How eagerly they both agreed to raising a wall between them. Thranduil might have laughed, if the gorge didn’t threaten to rise in his throat.

“I hope that we can remain friends.”

He saw a motion travel through Bard’s frame, like a silent laugh, a shudder, a convulsion. “As long as I don’t become an _attachment_.” The final word was bitter and cold, and seemed to slip past Bard’s lips unbidden.

Thranduil did not give the man time to apologize again. He merely slid his hands into his sleeves and bowed his head, the way he had so long ago. Then he turned, and left Bard there, heading back down the marshy path and willing his head to clear, reaching for peace and finding only chaos. At his back, the silence seemed to hang as still and heavy as the fabric of a shroud.


	8. Chapter 8

The shipments were beginning to back up.

Thranduil’s visits grew shorter as the months went by, then less frequent. It was inevitable, Bard knew. After what happened, it was also for the best. They had reached the closest point of their orbit, and now cosmic forces would pull them safely apart again. Mere physics. The way it was meant to be. These were the lies Bard told himself, as he lay quietly in bed staring through the dark clotted shadows on his ceiling, beyond it, to the stars.

And then, as the night went on, his thoughts grew darker, too.

It was his fault. He should never have—that thought always started the same, and could end in a myriad of ways. He should never have invited Thranduil on that walk. He should never have brought out the bottle. He should never have kissed him. He should never have wanted to.

All of those considerations were useless now. But they stung at him, day after day.

In the days afterwards, Sigrid had Bain had been quick to see something was wrong. When they asked, Bard hadn’t lied to them: he told them Thranduil would likely be reassigned. Not the whole truth, perhaps, but reason enough for the sick knot of fear twisting in Bard’s gut, the glimpses of it he could not seem to hide from anyone who cared to look. It was only when he saw Thranduil’s ship drifting down from the cloud bank above that he found relief. Every time Thranduil visited, he felt nothing but numb.

By the time Thranduil returned for the first time since the incident, Bard had almost managed to convince himself that they could simply laugh it off, and forget. They had both been drunk, of course. Things became confusing very quickly in a time like that. Thranduil would understand that. They would be fine.

All of those rationalizations evaporated faster than morning fog on the lake as soon as his eyes met Thranduil’s again. There had been a moment—one moment, Bard had to remind himself, despite the fact that for him it had never really ended—when he thought that things might be well between them again. And then Thranduil smiled. A cool, detached smile. The same smile he had greeted Bard with on the very first day of their partnership.

“Good afternoon,” Thranduil said. He stopped a few feet away, as if an invisible tether were holding him back. This might have been the moment when they would have clasped hands, traded a joke, fallen into the familiar routines that had grown so comfortable with use. But instead they simply stood there, until Bard forced the words up like bile.

“You’re early.” Early enough, in fact, that there was no danger of Thranduil being caught here after dark if he did not wish to be. And of course, he didn’t.

Thranduil smiled, that same thin watery expression. “And I’m afraid I have little time to spare. I must be going quickly.”

Bard swallowed the lump in his throat, dragged up a smile in his place. “I won’t keep you.”

They loaded up the cargo in silence. At first Bard was searching for the right words to bring them back together again, to crack open the ice that had turned cold and hard between them. By the time they loaded up the last of the barrels, he realized there were no words at all. This was what Thranduil wanted.

They both paused, a healthy distance away, as the cargo bay slid shut with a hiss of reinstated pressure. There was a moment where once Bard would have invited Thranduil to stay—it passed in a beat of uncomfortable silence. Then Thranduil stretched out his hand.

“I’ll be back for the next shipment.” His hand was warm, as warm as Thranduil’s skin had been that night. Bard let it go too quickly, hoping dearly that Thranduil was not reading his mind. 

He watched Thranduil climb back into his speeder and take off without another word, another glance. As the dust settled in the wake of the propulsors, Bard felt a strange surge of high feeling, like the sharp sting of a wound before true pain set in. So this was how it would be. This was what he and Thranduil would have to become. If Thranduil wanted to keep things professional between them, Bard would do everything in his power to oblige him. No matter what feelings might fester inside of him, he was strong enough to hold them in check. It was what Thranduil had to do every day. Bard had never guessed how hard it truly was.

It was better this way, of course. Better than what alternative, Bard would not let himself imagine.

He turned and went back into the house. His children knew better than to ask him what was wrong.

From then on, Bard expected each of Thranduil’s brief visits to end with the news he had been reassigned. Sometimes Bard waited for the news, his body as taut as a wire ready to snap. He waited for so long he almost wanted to hear the words, to know that Thranduil would never come back. Perhaps then he could move on. But Thranduil kept coming, kept smiling that carefully removed smile. At times Bard catch a glimpse of pain beneath it, turning around to catch Thranduil staring at him with the hunger of a starving man watching a holoscreen feast. Bard could not let himself consider the possibility that Thranduil was battling the same feelings he was. If that were the case, Bard would never be able to restrain himself.

Bard had lived with loneliness for a long time. But having the object of his longing right in front of him, flesh and blood and alive, was more painful than he could have imagined. Whenever he saw Thranduil he wanted nothing more than to reach out, to say something, to try and break through the wall between them.

Such thoughts were useless. No matter the reasons, no matter whether Thranduil wanted him back, in the end, thy could not be together. Bard told himself that, again and again, and in time he would come to accept it.

The anniversary of his wife’s death seemed to creep up on him every year, lurking somewhere in the tangle of the calendar before striking at him like a snake. The years had not numbed the pain so much as dulled it, the constant churning blades in the pit of his stomach gone rusty. He had a routine, a schedule he kept himself to every year because he didn’t know how to do anything else. He rose from bed before dawn, scrawled a note on the counter for his children (and even that, even today, brought sour memories of the happiness he’d had not so long ago) and then took his barge out into the swamp.

He was going nowhere in particular. His wife’s grave was in the only cemetery within a day’s journey of home, for good grave earth was hard to come by in the swamp. He felt no need to lay flowers on a grave—he wanted only to be alone. He found a quiet spot, a little mound of relatively solid earth overtaken by a single massive tree, its roots so dense and tangled that the ground itself was ribbed with them. He settled down by its trunk, staring blankly into the grey day. The mist had lifted early today, and he could see the green-grey waters curling around the patches of trees and grass winding into the distance.

Slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. Inside sat a necklace of the very same crystals he had been collecting for Thranduil for years, glittering green in the faint light, set in polished copper. It was a foolish thing, relatively worthless gems set in cheap metal, but it had been all he could afford to make for his wife on their wedding day. He remembered how it had looked at her throat, how the green of the stones had brought out the gleaming laughter of her eyes. He had let his fingers trail over it as they went to bed that night, and felt it warm from the heat of her flesh. As he held it in his hands now, it seemed to have taken on the cold of a grave.

Bard closed his hand around the necklace and pressed it to his chest. His eyes were dry. He did not cry over his wife very often these days. This kind of pain didn’t yield the relief of tears. His mind wandered aimlessly through memories like a fast-moving river, tugging him along and dragging him over the rocks.

And yet, before long, his thoughts guided him to Thranduil. They had their own flavor of pain, sharper and more defined. After the death of his wife Bard had not often dabbled in bed, and none of the relationships ever stuck. Whatever he had with Thranduil was different. The thought of losing him the way he’d lost her was almost unbearable, and yet in a way he already had.

His hand tightened on the necklace. He could see Thranduil in his mind’s eye, almost as clear as day—he was sitting in a beautiful garden on Coruscant, his hands folded in his lap and his eyes staring at nothing. Bard did not know where he had come up with such an image, but he wished more than anything that it were real. If it were, he would step forward and brush the hair away from Thranduil’s brow, would plant a kiss on his forehead, his cheeks, his lips—

Bard took a shuddering breath and pressed his hands over his face. The necklace was cold against his cheek, despite the warmth of his hand. He felt as if that cold sank into his skull, entwining with his thoughts of Thranduil and darkening them like a stain in clear water.

He lowered his hand. A much more immediate pain was building behind his eyes, a headache born from exhaustion and stress. He almost welcomed it. It tore his mind away from the past, the empty holes he couldn’t ignore, like a tongue probing the painful hole where a tooth had been.

With a sigh, he slipped the necklace back into his pocket and stood. There was more work to be done, and he had a lifetime left to mourn.


	9. Chapter 9

Thranduil sat on a low stone bench in the Room of A Thousand Fountains and tried to make his mind like water. He listened as it flowed in rivers and falls, clear and cool, always moving, sliding over solid stone and effortlessly leaving it behind. He tried to lose himself in that current, let it carry him away from the cramped confines of his own mind, yet the flow only ever led him to one destination.

It was becoming harder and harder to keep Bard at arm’s length. He could see the man’s struggles in every pained smile, every time he looked away too quickly. It seemed insanity that both of them should suffer so much, when they both wanted the same thing. And yet Thranduil knew that once he took that step, there would be no going back. For either of them.

Bard’s presence in his mind was a loose thread, tugging away at the heart of him and unravelling more by the day. Though he tried so hard to put the man from his thoughts, the truth was he didn’t want to. Above, the ceiling had been crafted in the image of a blue terrestrial sky, cunningly disguised by lights until it was almost indistinguishable. The difference was in the light. Though the air was bright, when Thranduil closed his eyes his skin remained cold under the artificial sun.

Footsteps approached on the gravel path. Thranduil did not bother to open his eyes again. He could sense as the figure settled down on the bench beside him, sitting in a silence that never became companionable.

“Greetings, Thranduil,” Master Elrond said. “I take it you had a pleasant journey.”

The journey had been one of the worst of Thranduil’s life. Of course, it seemed every new trip to Esgaroth taught him entirely new ways to hurt. Even now, Bard’s face was imprinted onto the backs of his eyes like an afterimage of staring unprotected at a sun. Every glance, every gesture, every time Bard’s eyes met his for too long, or not long enough; they were all a weight that Thranduil was not sure he had the strength to carry. But he must. There was no other way for them to be.

From that night, the darkness that wrapped around them and the taste of alcohol on his tongue, Thranduil had known things between him and Bard could never be the same. And yet, had he really expected the man to let him go so quickly—to turn every smile and laugh and shared joke into another cold veneer? Bard had done it so quickly, so effortlessly. As if there had been nothing between them at all. The first time Thranduil saw him again, Thranduil tasted Bard’s mouth on his own for days afterwards, though Bard had not so much as glanced at his lips. If it were not for the deep current of pain that he felt spilling from Bard’s mind like a turgid river buzzing with flies, Thranduil might have thought that nothing had passed between them at all.

But of course, he felt Bard’s pain almost as keenly as his own. It was what gave him the strength to hold Bard at a distance when he wanted nothing more than to draw him closer than ever before.

In the present day, Thranduil blinked out of his memories as if stepping into an unbearable light. He turned to Master Elrond with a wary expression. “Pleasant enough, I suppose.”

Elrond nodded. His hands were laced in the sleeves of his robes, his eyes following the shimmer of falling water in the nearby fountains. “Work with the crystals has reached a plateau. It seems their capacity to augment a Force-user’s powers remains difficult to ascertain.”

“They’ve made great progress over the years,” Thranduil said. “

“They responded well, yes. It is clear the crystals have an effect on the Force, but nothing that we have yet been able to harness. We must think carefully about how we use our resources, to ensure they are put towards the greatest good for the rest of the galaxy.”

Elrond paused.

The Council has revisited your case,” he said.

Thranduil felt a blade of ice slide into his chest. He knew, in that moment, what was about to happen. Elrond turned to look at him, an expression of faint pity on his face. “I can feel the turmoil of your thoughts, Thranduil.”

Thranduil took in a long breath. “My mind is clear.”

“Is it? I sense otherwise.” Elrond’s eyes picked him apart without cruelty or mercy. “Has it really come to mean so much to you?”

It would be so easy to say yes. To turn to Elrond and beg him to let Thranduil keep the assignment for just a while longer. To ask for the chance to say goodbye. Perhaps, in the name of allowing him to move on, Elrond would even grant such a request. And yet—Thranduil kept his mouth shut. He was beginning to understand, in that moment, exactly what he had to do. A strange lightness grew inside of him as the germ of the idea began to settle in before Elrond even spoke again.

“Your next assignment will be to meet with a diplomat on Felucia and evaluate their planet’s attempts to reform their security forces,” Elrond said. “More details will follow shortly. But from this point forward, there will be no need for you to return to Esgaroth.”  

He scarcely heard Elrond’s words. It was as if a massive weight had been lifted off his chest. It was all he could do not to smile. “I understand,” he said in even tones. “I will obey the Council’s decisions.”

Master Elrond nodded. “We will call you to your next assignment soon. You have done good work, Thranduil. It is time to move on.”

A gentle reprimand, but there nonetheless. They knew what line Thranduil had walked, no doubt. Perhaps even now they were looking for it in his face, the anger, the betrayal, the desperation. Inside himself, Thranduil was the lake—cool, smooth, unbroken by wind or wave. He inclined his head, and the Council had no reason to stop him.

From there, he headed for his ship. He knew where he needed to go.


	10. Chapter 10

Bard was out on the lake when he heard the craft approaching.

He had been picking up a delivery of wine from a small community on the other side of the lake. Today Esgaroth’s ever-present cloud cover remained at a distance, a high white dome over a slate-grey lake snarled with the occasional island of trees. Bard heard the branches between to whisper at the approach of a flying craft; his boat began to rock as the ship swung into sight, its propulsors making two white craters in the surface of the lake. Bard tightened his hands on the helm and turned the nose against the waves. At last, the ship settled down with a sigh of water, sending it slopping over the low decks of Bard’s ship. He stood still and tense, his lips a fine pale line.

He raised his hand, squinting against the spray. The cockpit was opening—a familiar figure rose from it. “Thranduil,” Bard called. “What are you doing here?”

Not the most welcoming sentiment, perhaps, but among other things, Bard was nervous. He didn’t like the look on Thranduil’s face.

“Has something happened?” Bard asked as he guided the barge closer. Thranduil said nothing. His silence made Bard’s heart pound all the faster.

At last the barge was close enough for Thranduil to step from his floating speeder. He almost stumbled as his long legs cleared the gap. Without thinking Bard grabbed him by the shoulders, steadying him, holding him in place. Were his hands shaking? Could Thranduil feel it? It didn’t matter. “Is it Tilda?” Bard asked. He was not even trying to keep the fear from his voice now. “Thranduil, if she’s hurt, you must tell me.”

Thranduil’s eyes settled on his face as if they were surprised to find him here. He looked almost dazed, and yet a faint smile settled on his lips as he looked into Bard’s eyes.

“Tilda is well. I’m here on my own discretion.”

Bard blinked. “The Council—”

“Has reassigned me.”

“You had said once that if they did, we would never see each other again.”

“I had said that.”

The words hung between them like the mist from the lake still settling on their skin. Bard didn’t know what they meant, what Thranduil was trying to tell him. He felt as if he was standing at the brink of something, a horrible drop, a dark pit in the ground. “Thranduil, what are you—”

Thranduil kissed him.

It was nothing like the first time, drunk, uncertain, fumbling towards an ending or a beginning and not knowing or caring which. This time—

 _This time_ —

Bard’s hands tightened on Thranduil’s shoulders. The kiss was slow, shallow—Thranduil’s lips brushed against his and then pressed closer, scarcely moving, hanging in the balance. His hand cupped the side of Bard’s face hesitantly, his thumb stroking over Bard’s cheekbone. And then Bard pulled away, his grip on Thranduil’s shoulders was steel.

“What are you doing?” he whispered, because anything more would reveal the tremble in his voice.

Thranduil’s hand had not fallen from the side of Bard’s face. He stared into Bard’s eyes as if seeing him for the first time in decades, with a sense of shell-shocked amazement. “What I must,” Thranduil replied, leaning in again.

Bard flinched backwards, and Thranduil paused. Bard took a slow, shuddering breath, struggling to marshal his thoughts. “You know we can’t.”

The hand on Bard’s face wandered over to trace the frown-lines deepening around his mouth and eyes. “And why shouldn’t we?”

It was so hard to think with Thranduil touching him, his fingers stroking down Bard’s neck. Bard was experienced enough that such simple touches should be routine, and yet—he closed his eyes when Thranduil’s thumb slid back up over his lips, struggling not to part them and take the digit in.

“You said it was dangerous. That it was not allowed. The Code—”

“I don’t care anymore.”

“Thranduil, I won’t do this to you—”

Thranduil kissed him again, harder this time, their noses pressing together and Thranduil’s hand sliding down to the back of his neck. Bard kissed him back before he could stop himself, eyes squeezed shut, trying to memorize every piece of this moment, every movement, every touch. Thranduil kissed like someone who had never done it before, a little hesitant, a little clumsy, and yet Bard could feel his want like the dry heat of a furnace breathing against his skin.

When Bard pulled back a second time he stopped with their lips a finger’s breadth apart. Bard knew he had to stop this, stop this _now,_ while he still could—if he still could—but Thranduil’s grey eyes were open and staring into his, and how many times had he imagined this moment, no matter how he he’d tried not to? How many night could he carry this memory, the knowledge that he had had this, it had been his own, and he had cast it away seconds later as if it weren’t everything in the world? He stared into those sleepless nights even now, could feel them drawing in around him. He was terrified. His hand had slid into Thranduil’s hair.

“Won’t you?” Thranduil said. Bard could feel the breath of his words on his mouth. And Bard chased them like it was all he knew how to do, leaned in to take Thranduil’s mouth, kiss him deeply, hold nothing back this time, for if this moment was the one that would sustain him he was going to take whatever he could, he was going to be selfish.

“Bard—” He pressed closer, hands fumbling at Bard’s coat, and Bard let him, helped him. He walked them backwards until Thranduil’s back was pressed to the cab of the barge with a thud. Thranduil grunted at the pressure, smiled into his mouth. “Don’t hold back.”

“Do I seem to be?” Bard scraped his teeth over Thranduil’s neck. “I shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Shut up.”

“Help me.”

Thranduil pressed his mouth over Bard’s as he pushed through the door to the barge’s small cabin. Inside was a small living space, a tiny stove warming the air, a low cot with its blankets neatly made. They didn’t make it that far. Thranduil yanked the door shut behind them and shoved Bard against it.

Now it was Bard pinned beneath Thranduil’s weight, Bard who felt lips skimming his throat. He wondered if Thranduil was copying his actions, following Bard’s lead because he didn’t know anything else. Perhaps he was even reading Bard’s mind. The thought made Bard moan into his mouth even as Thranduil wrenched his coat from his shoulders and began to undo the buttons on his shirt. He looked down to watch the way Thranduil’s fingers trembled as they slowly undressed him.

“Are you going to stand there staring, or are you going to help me?” Thranduil’s voice was breathless, yet as peevish as ever. That more than anything was what made Bard’s hands raise to Thranduil’s chest, skimming over the fabric of his robes—and oh, the utter taboo of that was enough to make Bard wither with shame or arousal or both—and begin to undo the cloth belt. His own chest was open to the air now, and Thranduil stroked his skin with an idle, directionless wonder that was hard to ignore. Bard did his best. He focused on taking Thranduil’s clothes apart, layer by layer, until he slid the fabric back over the smooth skin of Thranduil’s shoulders, his chest, his belly.

Only when he had Thranduil in nothing but his undergarments did Bard begin to push him towards the bed. Thranduil walked backwards with him awkwardly, his eyes dark and locked onto Bard’s. He was breathing hard—they both were—and seemed to be waiting for some piece of himself to suddenly realize what to do next.

“You’ve probably guessed I haven’t done this before,” Thranduil said, as Bard pushed him down onto the cot. His words stopped Bard short. Thranduil stared up at him with a challenge in his eyes, daring Bard to laugh or even to stop. He did neither, though the latter did cross his mind. He reached down for Thranduil’s hands and guided them to his hips, stepping forward so he was standing between Thranduil’s splayed knees.

“I had my suspicions,” Bard said softly. Not softly enough to hide the rough edge of need in his voice. A more obvious indicator was tenting his trousers. Thranduil’s eyes traveled down his body, tracing his chest and his navel until they settled on the bulge between his legs. Bard felt his face heating as if Thranduil’s gaze were a physical thing pressed against his cock. He wished he could read the Jedi’s mind, to reach beyond the face which was so impossible to read.

“Do you need me to—to tell you what to do?” Bard asked.

Thranduil glanced back up at him with a flicker of annoyance. “I lack experience, not understanding.”

“Well then what’s taking you so bloodly long?” Bard practically groaned. Thranduil smiled. Where his hands were still settled on Bard’s hips, his thumb began to stroke the bare skin just above Bard’s waistband. It was enough to make Bard’s knees feel weak, his body swaying forward even as he cursed himself for a fool. He needed to slow his mind, to make this last as long as he could; but Thranduil’s hand slid from his hip down the outside of his leg, over his knee and then up his inner thigh, and that was about as much as Bard could take. It was all he could do not to grab Thranduil’s hand and press it where he needed it.

Thranduil leaned forward to press his forehead to Bard’s stomach, taking in a long breath through his nose. His hand which had paused just slightly too low on Bard’s thigh slid up the last few inches. Bard sighed, a harsh breath of air, and settled his hand on the back of Thranduil’s head. He stayed with his face pressed to Bard’s stomach, and Bard could feel that his mouth was slightly open, the faint wetness of his lips just above Bard’s navel as his hand rubbed agonizing circles over Bard’s cock. He wanted to reach down and shuck off his trousers, but he wouldn’t push this faster than Thranduil was ready to go. He couldn’t stop the involuntary buck of his hips against Thranduil’s touch.

“I want to do this for you,” Thranduil whispered against his stomach. His hand squeezed Bard harder. His legs shook like a newborn colt’s, and his fingernails scraped Thranduil’s scalp. The mere thought alone of Thranduil’s mouth wrapped around his cock was enough to push him dangerously close to the edge. So Bard gently reached down to take Thranduil’s hand and pull it away from his erection, clasping it for a moment in his own.

“Finish undressing first,” Bard whispered.

A wry smile flickered over Thranduil’s face. His hands moved away from Bard and down to the undergarments Bard had left him with. “So eager to look at me before you even have me?”

“Yes,” Bard admitted, and Thranduil’s eyes darkened. He sat back on the bed and wriggle the rest of the way out of his remaining clothes, revealing smooth legs and sculpted hips, and a clear sign he was just as aroused as Bard was. Bard devoured him with his eyes, already reaching out; Thranduil caught his hand, and pressed a kiss to his palm.

“Not yet,” he said, and though his tone was sultry Bard could see the edge of nervousness in his eyes. Bard nodded, though it was difficult for him to hold back when he wanted nothing more than to touch and taste and take Thranduil apart. There would be time for that. But first—

Thranduil moved Bard’s hand so that it rested on the back of his head again, leaning forward to press a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss to the line of hair beneath Bard’s navel. Bard struggled to keep his breathing even, and as Thranduil’s hands began to undo his trousers, he failed. Thranduil pulled them  down to his knees, not even giving Bard time to finish kicking them off before taking him into his hand. Bard gasped at the sudden pressure as Thranduil stroked him, unpracticed and too slow, which was what helped Bard keep from spilling then and there. He wanted Thranduil’s mouth. Yet Thranduil seemed to hesitate, gathering his wits or his courage or perhaps just delighting in making Bard suffer.

“We don’t have to do this now,” Bard said, his voice strained. “We can stop and talk about it, there’s no need—”

In a moment Thranduil leaned down and opened his mouth around the head of Bard’s cock. Bard swore, every nerve in his body bent on keeping still, letting Thranduil taste him and wrap his mouth around him without pushing for more. It was agony. Thranduil did not know what he was doing, no matter what he said—he was going too slowly, it wasn’t enough, yet Bard was burning from the inside out, his toes were squirming and his breath coming in pants, he needed to _move_.

“Thranduil, will you, just, a little bit more,” he gasped.

He could have cried out in frustration as Thranduil pulled away entirely, his eyes raising to meet Bard’s for the first time. “Show me want to do,” he said calmly.

 Bard felt his cock throb. He ran a shaking hand through his own hair. “Ah. Well, if you could do that a bit faster, if you’re able—”

“I said _show_ me,” Thranduil said, and at the same time Bard felt as if something were brushing over his mind—a faint touch, like fingers brushing curiously over the surface of still water. At once he understood. He called up an image of what he wanted, him and Thranduil as they were now only Thranduil’s mouth was wrapped around his cock, his head moving at a steady rhythm, fingers digging into Bard’s thighs. He held it in his mind even as he watched Thranduil lean forward, his eyes never leaving Bard’s, and slowly take his cock into his mouth once again.

This time he followed Bard’s lead, slowly taking in as much as he could before pulling back again, still agonizingly slow as he discovered his pace; more than once he started to choke, but as soon as he caught his breath he leaned in again before Bard could suggest that they stop. Bard couldn’t stop the tiny thrusts that shuddered through his hips, his body desperate for more than Thranduil was ready to give—and then Thranduil pulled back, breathing hard, to meet Bard’s gaze again.

“It would be easier if you would simply take what you want.”

“No, this is so good, we don’t need to rush,” Bard said, and meant every word. But Thranduil’s hand slid up the back of his thigh to dig his nails into Bard’s ass, and his hips jerked forward unbidden.

“I want you to come,” Thranduil said. “Help me.”

“I don’t want to push you too fast.”

“I’m asking you to.”

Bard opened his mouth to argue—until Thranduil slid a hand down between his own legs, and began to bring himself off. For a moment Bard was transfixed, watching Thranduil’s eyelids flicker with each new wave of pleasure. Thranduil did not give him long to enjoy the show before pulling him forward again and taking him into his mouth.

This time Bard did not hold back. He slid a hand into Thranduil’s hair and twined it around his fist, then began to thrust. He went slow at first, keeping his movements shallow though he was desperate for more, until Thranduil surged forward to take Bard deeper into his throat than ever before. Bard felt his control slipping, his thrusts growing harder, less considerate. Thranduil grunted in the back of his throat, his own hand never stopping. Bard felt as he began to choke again, and started to pull away—Thranduil yanked him in again, and Bard was helpless but to give Thranduil what he was asking for. He lost himself in the jolt of his hips, the heat flooding his whole body as he thrust into Thranduil’s mouth.

“I’m close,” he grunted, loosening his hold on Thranduil’s hair. Thranduil raised his eyes to Bard’s. With slow deliberation his tongue dragged up Bard’s cock, stopping at the head to suck. With the image of Thranduil’s hollowed-out cheeks burned into his eyes, Bard came in gasping, trembling waves.

Thranduil took what he could, spitting over the side of the bed once Bard’s thrusts had finally stilled. When he met Bard’s eyes again the color was high in his cheeks and his mouth twitched with a satisfied smile. His cock was still hard between his legs.

“You have a filthy imagination, you know,” he said.

Bard planted his hands on Thranduil’s shoulders and shoved him flat onto the bed. He was on him as if he had lost all reason, hands digging bruises into Thranduil’s hips as he swallowed Thranduil to the hilt. Thranduil gave a muffled yell, his body jolting up against the mattress—Bard took him fast and hard, feeling Thranduil’s hands grasp desperately at his hair. He came in seconds, Thranduil watching Bard take it with a dazed expression and a stuttered groan on his lips.

After, Bard wiped his mouth and dragged himself up to lie at Thranduil’s side, pressing his forehead to Thranduil’s shoulder and squeezing his eyes shut. Pleasure still beat through him like a flutter of wings, but beneath it the fear and guilt were already gaining speed. He knew they shouldn’t have done this, that all the reasons they _hadn’t_ done it for so long were just as valid now. But somehow, they all felt a lot less convincing with the heat of Thranduil’s bare skin pressed to his own.

At last Bard couldn’t bear the silence of their breathing any longer. “What happens now?”

Thranduil chuckled, his fingers reaching up to trail over Bard’s hair. “Sleep, for a while.”

“I mean with… everything else. The Code. The Council.”

Thranduil was quiet for a while. His fingers slid against Bard’s scalp, the pressure almost enough to lull him to sleep without an answer. “Jedi are not specifically banned from sex, as long as there are no attachments involved.”

Bard tilted his head back to stare at the profile of Thranduil’s face. “…And are there?”

The kiss Thranduil pressed to Bard’s brow was answer enough.


	11. Chapter 11

_Four Months Later._

 

When Bard heard the sound of a speeder touching down outside his house, he could not help but smile. He hid the expression as soon as he realized Sigrid was watching, but not before she turned away with a private smile of her own.

“Thranduil’s here,” Bain called from the window. “Do we have a shipment for him?”

“Not this time,” Bard said. “He’s here to discuss other business.”

Sigrid actually snorted at that. Thankfully Bain was still as thick as a tree stump, and noticed nothing.

“Bain, why don’t you help me finish sorting and cleaning that salvage we dredged up last week?” Sigrid said sweetly.

“Come on, Sig,” Bain groaned. “Does it have to be now?”

Bard could only imagine the expression she must have shot her brother. All he heard was Bain’s agonized groan, followed by the tramp of his feet following Sigrid deeper into the house. At the same time, a different pair of feet was making its way up the boards to the front of the house.

The knock sounded. Bard tossed the towel onto the counter and opened it, staring into Thranduil’s cool blue eyes, creased with the faintest of smiles.

“Well, well,” Bard said. “What a surprise seeing you here.”

“I was in the neighborhood.”

Bard stepped back to let Thranduil pass, and closed the door softly behind him. When he turned around Thranduil was standing close, leaning into his space, a hand reaching up to slide behind Bard’s neck.

“I have a good idea,” Thranduil murmured, and brought their lips together.

 Bard inhaled sharply through his nose, surprise making him tense up for a moment before leaning into the kiss. It was slow, hungry, Bard’s hands tangling in Thranduil’s coat, the kitchen silent around them. Bard forced himself to pull back a moment later, tilting his head away. “Thranduil, the children could come back at any time…”

Thranduil muttered a protest against the side of Bard’s face, leaving a trail of kisses from the corner of his eye to the corner of his mouth. “Then let’s go somewhere we won’t be interrupted.”

“These walls are as thin as paper.”

“We’ll be quiet.”

“No we won’t.”

But Thranduil was already tugging him towards the hallway, leading him into Bard’s bedroom with the familiarity of practice. Bard tried to keep their movements as quiet as possible, painfully aware that somewhere else in the house Sigrid was trying to keep Bain as occupied as possible. It was only a matter of time before Bain figured out what was going on. Bard ought to break the news before then, but what was he to say? Such concerns were lost when the door clicked closed behind them, and Thranduil’s mouth fitted over his once more. They lowered themselves onto the bed, which creaked no matter how carefully they settled down. Thranduil shifted so that Bard lay beneath him, pressing close, kissing him harder—the bed groaned like a geriatric bantha. Bard and Thranduil froze, listening for the sound of Bain’s voice demanding what that was. The silence was hardly any more conspicuous.

Thranduil laughed against Bard’s mouth, his body relaxing slightly. “You may have been right,” he conceded. “It seems quite hopeless for us.”

“Should have gotten the kids out of the house,” Bard sighed. His hand wandered to Thranduil’s hip, settling comfortably there. Thranduil shifted so that they lay side-by-side, ignoring the bed’s complaints. For a while he just stared into Bard’s face, a hand brushed over his cheek, his thumb idly stroking Bard’s skin. Under the force of that gaze it was almost impossible not to feel as if he were being taken apart and put back together again.

“Are you reading my mind?” Bard murmured.

Thranduil laughed. “Only in your face.”

“And what’s my face saying?”

“Sweet nothings, mostly.”

“Hm. Your reading comprehension needs some work. I was just thinking that you’re a bit of an inscrutable bastard at times.”

Thranduil smiled. “I wouldn’t read you that way, besides. Not without your permission.”

“Are all Jedi so considerate?”

“They’re meant to be.” Something more serious had settled into Thranduil’s eyes. “I can show you, if you like. Let you know what it feels like.”

A flutter of nervousness traveled through Bard’s chest, yet the temptation outraced it. “Oh? And what should I do?”

“Use your imagination. Or even better, try not to.”

With a wry smile, Bard closed his eyes. Rather than trying to hide a thought, he let his mind go totally blank. Not playing by the rules, perhaps, but he was curious to see what Thranduil would do. He felt the grip on the side of his face shift, gain a different intimation. And then—

A frown darkened Bard’s face. His head felt as if his thoughts and memories were being rearranged, picked up and moved aside and then put back into place so that something could make its way through them. He bit his tongue down on the protests, wondering that it could feel so unpleasant even to have someone in his mind on invitation. Instead he focused on keeping his thoughts quiet, his mind blank.

And then, the feeling was gone. When he opened his eyes, Thranduil was staring at him with an expression that was difficult to read. There was almost a touch of sadness in his eyes.

“That felt different than I expected.” Bard’s voice came out slightly breathless.

“It is rarely pleasant. A mind is a thing meant to remain private.”

“What did you see in mine?”

Thranduil’s eyes flicked downward, away. For a moment Bard thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then he reached down to take Bard’s hand and draw it up between their chests. “Faces,” he said at last. “Tilda’s first. And then another’s, like hers, but older, more distant, hazier in memory.”

Bard felt something twinge in his chest, as if Thranduil had tugged a corresponding string. “I was keeping my mind blank.”

“Some things are always in the back of our mind, hidden even from ourselves.” Thranduil raised Bard’s hand to his lips, kissed its back, its fingers one by one. “I am sorry you must carry that burden.”

Bard remained silent, staring at their entwined hands. “I’m tired of losing people,” he said at last. His voice was flat, nearly expressionless. Thranduil squeezed his fingers tighter.

“I’ve forgotten most of the things I’ve left behind,” he said quietly. “I was too young when I first joined the Jedi Order to remember much of home or family. It’s meant to be a kindness. But I can’t help but feel that I was left with all the grief, and nothing to mourn.”

After a moment Thranduil leaned forward to kiss him again, quick and chaste, as if brushing something unpleasant away. “There was a planet I visited once,” he whispered against Bard’s lips. “Between Yavin 4 and Hollin, deep in the Outer Rim. I wasn’t supposed to be there at all—my ship had sustained damage and I had to stop and have it repaired. I was there for a week. It was one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen.”

Bard hummed against his lips. “What was it like?”

He felt Thranduil smile. “I won’t tell you. No, don’t,” Thranduil laughed as Bard began to shift away with a grumble. “One day, you’ll see it for yourself. We’ll all go there, you and your children.”

“And what will we do in this fantasy of yours?”

Thranduil shrugged, the movement of his massive shoulders enough to make the bed creak. “Start a new life together. One where no one knows us.”

Eventually, Bard smiled. “A pleasant dream.”

“It’s within my power. We could make it real.”

“I don’t doubt it.” And yet, Bard did doubt it—but for a moment a prickle of unease ran down his spine, imagining what would happen if he asked Thranduil to prove his word. He leaned forward to kiss him instead, trying to capture the vision and taste it.

He heard Thranduil groan in the back of his throat softly, his hands pressing feverishly to Bard’s body. “Must you do that?”

“You seem to enjoy it.”

“Not when that’s _all_ you’re going to do.”

“I thought the Jedi were famously patient.”

“I’m hardly a sterling example of Jedi behavior, now am I?” Bard’s smile faltered. Thranduil’s words had struck too close to the truth.

Seeing his expression, Thranduil eased back with a sigh. “There’s something else,” he said. “I think we should have our meetings somewhere else from now on.”

Bard raised an eyebrow. “Does this have to do with the state of the bedsprings?”

“I wish it were so simple.” Thranduil’s eyes stared into something Bard could not see. “I’m worried about this making it back to the Council’s ears. Meeting off-planet would be ideal, but in town works just as well. Plausible deniability. A useful ally, in times like these.”

Bard rolled over, and felt Thranduil press up against his back in response. He thought about all the layers of deception Thranduil laid down around himself for the sole purpose of being with him. “Is all of this difficult for you?”

“It’s the easier thing in the world.”

Bard fell silent. Thranduil’s words settled poorly in his mind, dragging ripples of unease behind them. Yet when Thranduil looped an arm around his waist Bard laced their fingers together without questioning the impulse. It _was_ easy. And for now, he didn’t want to question why.

 


	12. Chapter 12

The knock that sounded at Thranduil’s chambers made his hands falter in the act of packing a suitcase. He stared at the closed door with vague apprehension before carefully sliding the half-full case beneath his bed. Only then did he go to the door, and open it only a fraction so he might send whoever wanted him away.

“Open it up, Thranduil, I’m coming in,” Tauriel said good-naturedly. She was already pushing her way forward. Thranduil stepped back to let her enter, watching her movements with wariness. She offered him a tired smile before her eyes wandered over his room. “I came to see if you needed any help in preparing for your next assignment.”

“The Council suggested some files to access at the library in order to grasp the facts. I shouldn’t need more.”

He didn’t like the way that Tauriel’s eyes narrowed as she stared at his open closet. “Where are your clothes?” she asked. Before Thranduil could come up with an excuse her eyes flickered to the bed. She strode forward, too quick for Thranduil to intercept before she had flicked up the edge of the blanket to reveal the suitcase underneath.

“I thought you weren’t leaving for another two weeks,” she said.

“I’m not.”

“Bit early to be packing, don’t you think?”

“I like to be prepared.”

Tauriel stared at him blankly. “You’re hiding something.”

Thranduil did not flinch. Neither did he smile. “I can’t imagine what.”

“I can.” Tauriel turned away. “I like to think I know you well. Well enough to tell when you’re heading towards something bad.”

“I can take care of myself,” Thranduil snapped. “I have no need of you or the Council, your self-righteousness, your meddling—”

“I’m coming to you as a friend,” Tauriel said, whirling to pin him with an accusing stare. “I’m afraid for you. I can sense your feelings, Thranduil, can see the way they’re making you into something you’re not—”

“And what might that be?” Thranduil demanded.

“A liar. A person willing to give up more and more for his own selfish desires.”

“You think me selfish? After everything I have lost?” Thranduil laughed hollowly. He hefted his suitcase up onto the bed once more, and resumed packing as if Tauriel had not interrupted him at all.

“Is that what he is to you?” Tauriel said quietly. “Some sort of compensation for an old loss?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Thranduil slammed his case shut. He forced his hands to relax on the grip, took a moment to settle his emotions. “Will you go to the Council?”

Tauriel was silent for long enough he began to suspect that she already had. “I ought to. I know that. But Thranduil, please don’t make me.”

“I’m not making you do anything. If you betray me, it will be your choice alone.” He hefted his case from the bed and brushed past Tauriel without another word. That was how he left her, standing in his empty room with the bitterness of his words still ringing off the walls. He could not make himself feel guilt. As soon as he left his room behind, his thoughts turned only to Bard.


	13. Chapter 13

The streets were dark as Bard settled his barge on the outskirts of town. It had been a long journey from his home, but though he was tired his body felt brimming with electricity. His purpose in coming here was keeping him on edge, coiled like a spring.

The lodging house was a simple one, neither expensive nor decrepit—a bland in-between, guaranteed to avoid all notice. Bard slipped inside unseen. His line of work had made him accustomed to moving in stealth. He found the room number quickly enough, input the code he’d received on a secure channel. The locks slid back with a faint hiss. Bard smiled to himself, turned the handle, and stepped inside.

It was dark. When the door swung shut at his back, it was pitch-black. He stood still for a long moment, simply breathing, waiting, feeling the night air breathe against his face, skin as tight as a drum. From inside the room, the soft sounds of movement. And then, all at once, he was pushed back against the door by two strong hands on his arms.

“You’re late,” Thranduil whispered into his mouth, and then they did not speak for a long time.

Afterwards—when they made it to the bed, somehow, and were lying side by side, twined together—Bard ran his fingers through Thranduil’s hair, rubbing the fine strands between his fingers, avoiding thought. “When will you return?”

Thranduil shifted, the muscles of his back tensing. “As soon as I can.”

Bard bit back a series of useless comments. The urge to make things worse between them came and went as Thranduil did. There were times when Bard had laid out speeches in his head, short and simple, as to why they couldn’t be together. But then Thranduil came back. All those fine words Bard had strung together fell apart like old rotting rope.

“Good,” was all Bard said. He smoothed the hair back from Thranduil’s neck and kissed it, gentle but not lingering. When Thranduil turned towards him Bard pulled away from his intentions. “I have to get back.”

“The children.”

“Among other things.”

He could imagine perfectly the smile that would spread over Thranduil’s lips—the faint hint of superiority in it that the man himself never seemed aware of. His hand trailed over the skin on Bard’s back, idle, wanting more but unwilling to reach for it. Bard paused in his motions. He set his feet back on the floor, both boots on, and then twisted around to snare Thranduil’s fingers in his own and press a kiss to the backs of his knuckles. “Don’t stay away for too long,” Bard said, making no attempt to hide the note of strain in his voice. Let Thranduil read it as he would.

Thranduil’s fingers squeezed his own. “It’s always too long.”

“Don’t get sentimental on me.”

“Would you rather I keep it professional? It’s rather difficult when you’re dressed like that.”

“It’s business casual.” Bard took his time in putting his shirt back on. In truth there was time for him to stay longer. He could linger in that bed for an hour, maybe more. But something itched under his skin, faintly painful, a half-formed thought that had its roots in Thranduil. Bard couldn’t sit still, not with it gnawing away at him.

So he left, murmuring the few words of goodbye that cropped up between them every time, placeholders for the weeks to come. The route back to town was familiar, his barge skimming over the murky grey waters where the Lake and the land bled together. A grey day, like usual, but the sky weighed heavy with a rain that made no promise to break. A brooding kind of day, waiting to be punctured.

The smaller ship was in its place outside the house when Bard made his way up from the dock. Sigrid and Bain were home, then. Perhaps they would take his mind off of things.

“Hey you two,” Bard said with a smile as he stepped through the door. “Have you started—”

Bain’s face was pale, his freckles standing out against his skin. Sigrid’s eyes flicked from him to a space across the room, out of Bard’s line of sight.

His hand reached for the blaster on his belt before he had finished turning. He raised it at the figure standing in the corner, safety off, the air sizzling as the energy coils charged up. And then he saw the brown robes, the familiar posture, the eyes that regarded him with cool amusement.

He lowered the weapon, but did not holster it. “I wasn’t expecting a visitor.”

“I get that impression.” The Jedi’s eyes did not once move from Bard’s face, not even to the active blaster still humming in his hand. “Your children have been very hospitable. I asked them not to inform you of my presence. I thought it best that we meet in person.”

“I wasn’t under the impression I was of any more interest to the Jedi Council.” Bard pulled out a chair, placing himself at the table between the Jedi and his children and resting the blaster across his thigh, pointed away but turned easily enough. “Losing that contract was a blow. Finding new work has been hard, and I’m not feeling especially charitable to anyone wearing those robes.”

“Aren’t you?” It was said innocuously enough. It yanked something out of the bottom of Bard’s stomach and then kept pulling.

“Kids,” he said, his voice terse. “The barge needs some work done on the starboard hull. It should take you about an hour.”

“We’re not going to—” Bain’s words were cut off by Sigrid’s grip on his arm. He looked between her, Bard, and their visitor for one minute longer before giving in. Sigrid led him out the door, casting one look over her shoulder before the door closed behind her. Bard and the Jedi were alone.

Once he was sure his children were gone Bard deactivated the blaster and set it on the table. “Who are you, and what do you want?”

The Jedi indicated one of the seats. “May I sit?” When Bard nodded he did so, movements as slow and graceful and Thranduil’s ever were. There was a sinister edge about them, a hint of slowness that could quickly turn into speed. Bard waited, resisting the urge to pick up his blaster again, stilling his fingers on the table. He wanted to pace, to move, to call Thranduil. The last impulse was the strongest, and also the least practical. Whatever this was, he had to handle it here and he had to handle it alone.

“My name is Master Lindir,” he said. “I imagine you know why I’m here.”

“I’d hope that the Council realized its mistake in ending my contract.”

“That would be fortunate for you.” The Jedi’s smile was dry and papery. His eyes traveled around the kitchen. “It does seem that your family have fallen on hard times.”

“A decade ago, perhaps. If we fell on hard times, they stuck to us. The contract was a convenience, but more will come. If you have nothing to offer and nothing to say, I suggest you get out.”

“I’m afraid I have both. The offer I will present in a moment. As for what I have come here to tell you, well…” He spread his hands. “I had hoped you would already know.”

Bard stared at him, face blank. There was a chance, a slim chance, that this Jedi didn’t truly know anything. Perhaps it was related to something else. But of course, there was nothing else it could be. And Bard would not have it said aloud. “I’m not sure what there is to say about it.”

“Then perhaps nothing needs to be said. You need only end it.”

Bard’s hands did tighten then, and he kept them from inching towards the hunk of metal on the table only by a massive effort of will. Not that it mattered. His intention would be clear to a Jedi. “Is that a threat?”

“No. Merely a thing that you will do.”

“I don’t take orders from you or yours.”

“That is true. We have no authority over you in a social or political sense.” The Jedi steepled his fingers. “Shall we discuss morality?”

Bard almost laughed. Almost. “I’d really rather not.”

“It doesn’t thrill me either. Yet you’ve put me in a difficult position. And I’m not alone.” When Bard said nothing, Lindir continued. “You know, of course, the reason why Jedi are discouraged from forming attachments.”

“I’ve heard it before.”

“But do you understand it?”

“I’m not an idiot.”

“I wasn’t implying that you are. These things are difficult to explain, to those outside of our order. Sometimes even to those who have every reason to know better.” He leaned forward. The grey cloud-light from the window glinted flatly across his eyes. “And yet I think you already comprehend why what you’re doing is wrong, Bard.”

“Why are you here?” Bard demanded. “Why come to me, why bother, when you can simply order him to do what you want?”

“We could demand that Thranduil cease his visits to this system,” Lindir mused. “But you know him well enough, don’t you? He’d find a way. He is _fixated_ on you, and you know that too. So it is with Jedi who fall in love.”

Bard looked away. His teeth were clenching so hard that they seemed ready to pop. Hearing the word in this stranger’s mouth, spoken with such gentle pity, was almost unbearable. Not when he’d hardly been able to articulate it to himself. “You haven’t answered my question.”

Lindir sighed. “Thranduil will never give up,” he said. “Not unless he is given a very good reason to do so. And that reason can only come from you.”

At last, the picture clicked into place. Bard stared at Lindir with a whole new sense of revulsion. “You want me to end it with him.”

Lindir only nodded.

For a long while Bard simply sat, processed. “Is it because you think I’m weaker?” he said at last. “An easier target to wear down?”

“On the contrary. It is because you are strong enough to see what is right.” Lindir leaned forward. “Why do your torment yourself this way? I can feel it, Bard, even now. You’re torn, knowing that what you and Thranduil do is corroding him like water turning metal to rust, and yet while Thranduil is with you, you know you cannot let go. But what will he come to be, the longer you hold on?”

“You have no right—”

“I have every right. Swearing to forgo all attachments is an oath all Jedi make, and when one of us forsakes it we are all of us affected. I do not come to you for the sake of propriety, to enforce some meaningless social code. I come to you for Thranduil’s sake. So that you might not live to see yourself destroy him.”

Bard laughed, a hollow, angry sound. “And you think that casting him off would do anything different?”

“We would be there for him. We could help him. If he continues to push away his friends and allies for your sake, what can we do?” Lindir shook his head. “If it is just you and him, what can _you_ do to save him when the time comes?”

“Save him from what?” Bard’s voice reverberated through the tiny kitchen. He hadn’t even been aware he was shouting. He slumped back in his seat, heart pounding hard in his throat, and pressed a hand over his eyes.

“There are stories,” Lindir said quietly, “parables that we tell to younglings and trained Jedi alike, when one of us begins to wander. Would you like to hear them now?”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Bard said, but his voice broke, and he wasn’t strong enough to try again.

He heard Lindir sigh, and lean back in his chair. “I am sorry. But you must. For by the end, I believe you will be convinced that our point of view is the right one."

Bard did not want to listen. Yet he did. 


	14. Chapter 14

Thranduil arrived early. The rooms at the boarding house had been reserved in advance, anonymously and untraceably. That was what Thranduil looked for in a meeting place, as well as a location Bard could reach easily without being recognized along the way. It was becoming easier to keep secrets, to slink around in the dark.

The decorations were simple: wooden furniture, a low bed large enough for two. Thranduil’s eyes skimmed over it only in a cursory sense as he sat on the bed. It was just a place. What mattered was what happened here, and who it happened with.

Normally Bard was already waiting for him by the time he made it to the planet. He’d been late before, of course. But today… Thranduil laced his fingers together, pale knuckles forming a snaggle-toothed smile. Something was in the air. He could sense it, an undercurrent of tension that might have been his own. He closed his eyes, frowned. It was growing harder and harder for him to find that balance, that smooth Lake-surface in his mind. Thoughts of Bard broke through his concentration with the disruptive thud of heavy stones. It was difficult for him to reach out, to sense whether the trouble came from Bard or from him.

By the time he heard the correct key-code being punched into the door, Thranduil was pacing. Such restless motion hardly helped still his mind, and yet he could not stop himself. He turned to the door—a flood of relief as Bard stepped inside, and closed it firmly behind himself. Thranduil moved to embrace him. The look on Bard’s face stopped him.

“You’re very late,” Thranduil said, burying the caution in his voice. “A lesser man than me might feel snubbed.”

“There was something I had to do,” Bard said. The man looked almost shell-shocked, as if some internal part had torn its way out of him and left only a fragile approximation in its place. Thranduil felt the fear rising, twisting into his thoughts, sapping his strength and his calm. He couldn’t reach out and skim the intentions from Bard’s mind when his own was in such turmoil. He wanted to start pacing again.

“What’s happened?” Thranduil asked. He settled down onto the bed, keeping his motions smooth to hide his fear. Bard did not join him. Rather he lingered on the other side of the room, caught in some different gravity.

“Nothing,” Bard said hoarsely. “I’ve just been thinking.” He dragged his hands over his face.

“Now that’s out of character. Should I be worried?”

“Thranduil…”

“Come sit down with me, Bard.”

Bard opened his mouth, a second denial seemingly on his tongue. But then he stopped himself, shook his head, and slowly moved over to sink onto the bed at Thranduil’s side. At the feeling of him nearby, the tension in Thranduil’s body immediately slackened. He reached up to run a hand over Bard’s back, stroking over the rough material of his shirt, feeling the strength and warmth beneath. Solid. They would work things out between them, no matter what was wrong. With Bard here beneath his hand it was impossible not to believe.

“Everything is better when you’re here,” he murmured. “Smoother. Calmer. My mind just… settles.”

Bard stared straight ahead of him, that familiar frown notched between his eyes. “I thought Jedi were supposed to be able to do that on their own.”

“Perhaps I’ve come to rely on you.” Thranduil leaned forward. His lips brushed the soft skin just beneath Bard’s ear. A moment later Bard pulled back, his hand coming up to the side of Thranduil’s face—less of a caress, and more a gesture meant to stop him from pursuing. Bard turned to him with desperation in his eyes. He pressed their foreheads together, and this time Thranduil resisted the urge to turn it into a kiss.

“Whatever’s wrong, can’t it wait?” Thranduil’s eyes darted between meeting Bard’s gaze and tracing his lips. “Can’t we—just for a while, and then we can talk—”

“This has to happen first.” As he said it, a cloud seemed to clear from behind Bard’s eyes. He pulled back. His hand slipped away. A pained smile crossed Bard’s lips as he watched Thranduil now, watched him like a cornered animal. “Are you reading my mind right now?”

“Are you asking me to?”

“No. I need to do this myself.”

“Bard, what are you saying?” Thranduil leaned forward. “You’re agitated. Something has clearly happened that you don’t want to discuss. But you can _tell_ me, Bard, you know that. I will do what I can to help.”

“I know you will. But it’s not so simple.”

“If it isn’t simple, it is only because you complicate it.” Thranduil’s mind was racing again, and even Bard’s presence couldn’t slow it. “It’s those slimy government officials, isn’t it? Is he harassing your work again?”

“No, that’s not—”

“It would be easy for me to put a stop to it if you’d let me. I could ruin his business, make him rue the day he even first thought your name.” Thranduil rose to his feet, energy pounding through his veins. “I should have done that long ago, I see that now. He’s been a thorn in your side for too long.”

“ _Thranduil_ —”

“At least think of your children,” Thranduil said in exasperation. “Won’t you let me help _them_?”

“This isn’t about them!” Bard was on his feet now too. If his eyes had been clouded before, they flashed with lightning now. “Or it is, in a way. It’s about all of us, I just can’t—” He turned away again. “—can’t say it, gods damn it—”

Thranduil stepped forward, reached out. “Bard…”

“No, stay back. This will be easier, I think, without you there.” Thranduil froze in place. At once the disruptions from Bard seemed the take shape, seemed to form themselves into waves that broke over him, one after another.

“I’d like to make it easier,” Thranduil said slowly. “Whatever it is. I want to help.”

Bard turned back to him. His expression was wretched. “I don’t think you do.”

Thranduil stood quietly for a while. He swallowed, cleared his throat, spoke. “It’s only natural to have second thoughts about this. I understand that I put you in a difficult position.”

“These aren’t second thoughts. This is a decision.”

Thranduil smiled, a stunted, strange expression that didn’t belong on his face. “Bard, be reasonable. We can discuss this.”

“But we have discussed it. Time and time again. You shouldn’t be doing this with me, Thranduil, and you’ve always known it. I just couldn’t do what I needed to do on my own before.”

“The only reason I shouldn’t see you is a set of archaic, arbitrary rules,” Thranduil argued. “I’ve told you they don’t matter to _me._ I can control myself, Bard, are you even _questioning_ —?”

“Yes!” Bard snapped. “I am questioning it, Thranduil, because you told me not five minutes ago that you can scarcely focus your thoughts anymore! Is that a good state of mind for a Jedi to be in? Should I turn a blind eye forever, as I destroy everything you’ve trained to become?”

Thranduil blinked. “You blame yourself for this. That’s it, isn’t it?” Bard looked away. This time when Thranduil stepped forward the man did not rebuff him. “Bard…” His tone was gentle, chiding. He reached down to pick up Bard’s hands and grip them between him, staring into the man’s face though Bard would not meet his gaze. “I have chosen this. The responsibility is my own. Whatever happens, it is not your fault.”

“Whatever happens.” Bard’s words echoed his hollowly. At last he turned to meet Thranduil’s eyes, his own expression dark and inscrutable. His hands tightened their grip. “Thranduil, I care for you more than any other person not my own blood.”

Thranduil smiled. The waves were settling now, the tension falling away. “I know. And I feel the same.”

Bard nodded, as if Thranduil had confirmed some suspicion of his. Then he released Thranduil’s hands. “You understand, then, why I can’t allow you to get hurt. Even if it isn’t my fault. Even if you think it’s what you want.”

He was so close. Thranduil wanted nothing more than to reach out, to pull him closer. “Your intentions are admirable, Bard, but misguided. We have nothing to fear.”

“That isn’t true,” Bard said. “I’ve heard the stories of what happens when a Jedi loses control!”

Something went very cold and very still in Thranduil’s head. “Have you? And who told them to you?”

Bard went silent. It was then that Thranduil knew, a short, sharp pang of knowledge, icy and clear. He laughed then, turning away. “I see. That explains so much.”

“It isn’t—”

“I really did expect the Council to meddle eventually,” Thranduil said, speaking more to himself than any other. “But this is pathetic. To get to me through you. It’s unbelievable. It’s _cruel_.” The ice in his heart was crystalizing, forming sharp edges, unfamiliar shapes. A feeling rose in Thranduil’s chest that felt like elation, but with a different flavor, a mad rush towards his brain. When it hit he didn’t want Bard to be there. He wanted to be standing before the Council, his lightsaber in his hand.

“This isn’t about the Council,” Bard was saying. “This is my choice, no matter what the Council has told me. I’ve known for a long time that this is what I had to do.”

“Bard,” Thranduil said softly. He turned around and raised a gentle hand to the side of Bard’s face, keeping it pressed there even when the man flinched. “You’re wrong. The Council has manipulated you. It’s what they _do_. But this will be the last time.”

Thranduil turned away, collected his things. “Where are you going?” Bard demanded. Thranduil could sense his fear now, his anguish. Everything was so much clearer.

“I am going to remove the only thing that has ever stood between us.”

“Thranduil no, that isn’t—I’m trying to tell you that this is what I want—I can’t let you hurt people.”

Thranduil turned back to him, pausing in the doorway. He smiled. “I’m not going to hurt anyone, Bard. That isn’t the Jedi way.” He took a step back towards Bard, leaned in, pressed a kiss to Bard’s lips. “I will be back. Then everything will be better between us.”

Bard’s hand shot up to capture Thranduil’s against the side of his face. When Thranduil pulled back to look in his eyes they were desperate. “Thranduil, this is goodbye. No matter what you tell the Council, no matter what they do—I can’t do this anymore.”

In the cold, clear plane that was Thranduil’s mind, such words made little impact. He merely smiled again, sadder this time, and pressed his forehead to Bard’s one last time. “You’re wrong,” he said quietly. “I will return. As I always do.”

Bard called out to him again as he left, but this time he did not turn, and he did not stop.

 

 

He was not surprised to find the Council waiting for him.

He strode through the halls of the Jedi temple with purpose. Many avoided his gaze as he walked. Even more made every effort to remove themselves from his path. It did not bother him—he felt serene, buoyed up by that cold strange feeling in his chest. Bard thought that he knew what was best, but he was wrong and Thranduil would prove it. It was the Council that was the problem—the festering heart of every conflict, everything that had ever kept them apart. Thranduil would cut it out of them, and then he would return.

“Thranduil?” It was only the familiarity of the voice that made him stop. He turned, meeting Tauriel’s wide eyes with a smile.

“It is good to see you,” he said, and meant it. “I am not sure when I will get the chance again.”

She shook her head, stepping forward. Around the fringes of the hallway bystanders were gathering, whispering to each other, eyes darting between Thranduil and Tauriel. Many hands, he noticed, gripped the belts where their lightsabers hung. That information struck Thranduil as amusing, somehow—perhaps it was the idea that they could match him.

“What are you saying, Thranduil?” Tauriel asked. She glanced at their surroundings with less warm feeling. “Whatever you’re doing, stop it now. Come back with me, we can go somewhere safe to talk about this—”

“There’s nothing to discuss,” Thranduil said calmly. “My words are for the Council.”

Tauriel’s expression grew pained. “You’re going to do something you will sorely regret.”

“Is that an intuition? Do you sense a disturbance in the Force?” Thranduil smiled coldly. “I have felt the force in ways you cannot imagine. The Council would hide such things from us, would keep us weak and in the dark. But I won’t bow beneath their yoke any longer.”

Murmurs started up from all who were watching. Tauriel paid them no heed. “Can’t you hear yourself?” she said softly. “Don’t you know what you sound like?”

Cold dug its way into Thranduil’s thoughts. Sharp edges, icy spikes. “I had hoped you would be more far-seeing than this,” Thranduil said. “Step out of my way. I won’t stop, not here.”

For a moment he thought Tauriel would actually block his way. But then something behind her eyes crumbled. She bowed her head, eyes to the floor, and stepped back to let him pass.

He strode forward without a backwards glance, the doors of the Council chamber ahead of him.

“We have sensed your coming,” Master Elrond said as Thranduil strode into the room. “We felt it for some time.”

“Your anger betrays you,” Master Gandalf said. That same insufferable knowledge.

“I am not angry,” Thranduil said with a smile. “I am as all Jedi should be. My mind is clear.”

“That is not what we sense.” Master Radagast seemed unwilling to meet his eyes. “Everything outside of you is thrown into chaos. You need to control your emotions. They are controlling you.”

“And you would know much of control, would you not?” Thranduil said. His voice came out sharper than he intended. He took a breath. He smiled again. “I have learned what you have done. Did you think that I would be so easily discouraged?”

“We thought you might listen to the counsel of one close to you,” Gandalf said. His eyes were sad. Thranduil hated that more than anything.

“You poisoned his mind,” Thranduil said. His voice rose in spite of himself, and he found he could not keep it down. “You came to him knowing your arguments would take hold, knowing his good intentions would be easily bent to your will. How is that _just_?”

Elrond leaned back in his chair. “We acted with your best interests in mind.”

“You acted to take away the best thing that has ever happened to me!” Thranduil was not even trying to keep his voice level now. Why should he? That was what the Council wanted. He turned to each one of them in turn, mouth a twisted bitter line. “But you failed. I won’t let you drive Bard away. He’ll see reason. And if the Council wishes to expel me from their order, I will happily go.”

He saw Elrond reach up to press his temples. Radagast’s eyes darted away. “It is too late,” Gandalf said softly.

Thranduil stared at him blankly. He felt as if he were vibrating to a strange frequency, trembling on the cusp of shattering.

“We knew it would not be so simple as having Bard turn you away,” Gandalf continued. “We had hoped you would respect his wishes, but did not believe it likely. Bard thought the same. He agreed to take his family and move off-planet, somewhere far away. We gave him a new life, a stable livelihood. A place to be content, where his children could grow up safe.” Gandalf’s eyes were sad. “He agreed to all of this himself. He thought it was what was best, to ensure you did not come to him again.”

“You’re lying.” Thranduil spat the words out like hot coals.

Gandalf bowed his head. “You may return. We expect you to. If searching helps bring you peace, then search for as long as you need. But I hope it will not be too long, Thranduil. You will not find him—now is the time to heal.”

“I will not stop,” Thranduil snarled, “not until I have undone all that you have done, not until I have made things right—” His hand clenched and unclenched inches from his lightsaber. How badly he wanted to draw it, to make them feel as he felt, to make them hurt—

He stopped. He let his hand fall. “You will pay for this,” he said quietly. “After I have found them, after all is right—that is when I will come for you. So that you know I act not out of anger, but out of justice.” Without another word Thranduil turned on his heel.

“Do not do this, Thranduil,” Gandalf said at his back.

Thranduil did not look back. “It is already done.”  


	15. Chapter 15

_Ten months later._

 

Grass rippled. A wind blowing up from the east—another electrical storm might be on the way. Clouds were gathering at the edges of the peaks, which rose at intervals out of the grassy plains. Storms meant more energy for a time. Bard leaned on the post of his door, watching Sigrid and Bain struggle to right an electrical rely tossed over by the wind. They’d insisted on doing it themselves. Stubborn. Where did they get that from? He couldn’t help but smile.

It was hard to believe that they’d built all this in less than a year. But of course, they hadn’t really built it. The house had been waiting. The job had been arranged. The Council had thought of everything. There was a time when Bard might have resented that—and in fact he had. Maybe he still did. But Sigrid and Bain were going to school now, a _good_ school, one that would give them opportunities. And the work wasn’t easy but it was safe, legal. The house was a good house. The life was a good life, though it wasn’t his own.

The air prickled on Bard’s skin. Definitely a storm. He’d call the children inside in just a minute. He was in a contemplative mood today—he had been for a while. Something was in the air, a sense of being tugged backwards. Three or four days ago he’d woken up in the middle of the night, a cold sweat on his body, a sense of bad things turned in his direction. Beneath his pillow, his hand had clutched the emerald necklace that he had brought with him across the galaxy. The feeling hadn’t passed, not even as he watched the moon sink and the sun rise white and blue over the northern horizon. It had only faded to a dull, gnawing anxiety that had plagued him for days and had not yet dissipated. What it meant, he could only imagine. It felt too much like the fear that had settled into him when he’d first come to this planet; when he’d first left Thranduil behind.

Bard tried his best not to think of the past, and in the years after his wife’s death he’d gotten good at it. But the past was so heavy now. It had its own gravity. Especially when he looked forward and saw nothing but a bright, empty light, a stretch of days that were happy and unfulfilling, missing some essential ingredient.

Bard could live with the loneliness. He’d done so for years before that speeder had touched down outside his house, carrying months of happiness and pain with it. He could live with it easier now, knowing that he’d made the right choice. Somewhere out there Thranduil was living a better life because Bard wasn’t in it. That knowledge had cut deep at first, burrowing in, hollowing him out. After a while the pain had become a constant he’d learned to set his life by.

He was defined by absences now. His wife. His daughter. Thranduil. All shapes carved out of him, and he wasn’t sure what they had left behind.

The first flickers of lightning had begun to crackle from the peaks—none of it touching down yet. Bard had just opened his mouth to call his children back when something that wasn’t thunder rolled over their corner of the compound. A speeder swung low over their house, hovering just outside the grounding fence before touching down. Bard didn’t recognize the ship. But there were only so many people who knew who and where he was.

“Sigrid, Bain,” he shouted over the wind as the cockpit slid open. “Inside.”

They had already seen the Jedi that slid gracefully down onto the ground. No shielding them from that, then. They’d know there was some kind of trouble. The sight of those robes never meant anything else.

“What’s going on?” Sigrid murmured as she passed him in the door. Bard just shook his head.

The Jedi had stopped at the bottom steps of the porch, his hands folded into the arms of his robes. Bard recognized him. “Lindir, is it?” he said. The Jedi nodded. “Well then. You’d best come in. That storm will be here soon.” He climbed the steps without comment, passing by Bard on his way through the door with a respectful nod. Bard stared out over the landscape for one last time, not sure what he was looking or waiting for. He closed the door and shut it all out.

Sigrid and Bain had lingered in the room—one more look sent them out. The door slid closed behind them with a hiss. In the old house there had been no privacy, all the walls full of holes, made of wood. Here each room was its own fortress.

Bard faced Lindir from across the room with his arms crossed over his chest. There was some low furniture in this room, but neither made a move to sit. “I assume there’s a problem.”

Lindir’s smile was wry. “What makes you think that?”

“Intuition or experience. Take your pick.”

Lindir cast his eyes down. He seemed to be weighing his words before he spoke them, preparing very carefully. Bard saw little need. What else could it be?

“It’s Thranduil, isn’t it?” he said. After a moment, Lindir nodded. Bard let out a heavy breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I thought this was over.”

“There are many things that you don’t know. Information I would like to share with you now.” Bard made a noncommittal gesture, and Lindir continued. “Firstly, I need to know whether Thranduil has contacted you at any point in the past ten months since your relocation.”

Bard shook his head. “Nothing. I had hoped that meant… he had moved on.”

Lindir was quiet for a moment. “That was what we wanted you to believe,” he said at last. “The truth is, Thranduil has not communicated with _us_ in that time either. All of our contact with him has been through surveillance, informants. He’s been beyond our control for that time. Searching for you.”

Bard felt his legs begin to feel strange. He reached out his hand, found the back of a chair, sat down in it. He was scarcely aware of Lindir doing the same. “He’s been searching for all this time?” An old familiar pain was gnawing at his insides, a pain that had never really gone away. “Why did no one tell me?” he whispered. “Why now?”

“We didn’t want to disturb you unless necessary,” Lindir said.

Bard looked at him sharply. “And what has changed?”

Lindir hesitated. That was when Bard knew something was very wrong.

“Is he hurt?” Bard pressed. “Has he—has he hurt someone else? Do you know where he is?”

“As far as we know, Thranduil himself is unharmed.” Lindir’s voice was very careful, as if he were toeing the edge of some fatal drop. “We have no clues as to his current whereabouts—we are exploring a series of leads.”

“You didn’t answer me fully. Has he hurt someone?”

Lindir looked down. “Yes,” he said at last. “Many people, over the course of his search. At times his movements have been difficult to track. We cannot be certain of the full scope of his actions.”

Bard covered his face with his hands. “But something else has happened, hasn’t it. That’s why you’re here now.”

“Yes. It has.”

“What has he done?”

Lindir’s face was unreadable. That infuriating Jedi reserve. “We need to know whether you’ve received any contact from your daughter in the past few days.”

“I talk to Sigrid every—” Bard stopped. The world got very still and very far away. Somewhere else, he took a long, shuddering breath. “ _No_. He wouldn’t.”

“We first realized something was wrong four days ago. Tilda was away from the Temple on a simple mission—nothing with any risk. She missed her first check-in, and did not respond to our calls.” Lindir’s voice was quiet, winding around Bard like a thick, cloying fog. Bard could only sit, wait for it to clear. “We dispatched one of our own to check on her, thinking it was likely a technological failure. We did not begin to suspect she was missing until that night—”

Bard put his head in his hands. Lindir waited for a few moments more before continuing. “In the time since then we have made every effort to locate her. We managed to track his ship to the planet Erebor, but from there the trail goes cold.” Lindir leaned forward. “We have no reason at all to suspect that he would harm her—”

“Except for the fact that he’s already _kidnapped_ her,” Bard cried, raising his head at last. “All this time, he’s been looking for me—what’s going through his mind? What kind of desperation—” Bard broke off, pressing the knuckles of his hand to his mouth. He could feel it shaking. “You should have told me.”

“We thought—”

“It was my _right_ to know!”

“We made a mistake,” Lindir said calmly. “That’s in the past now.”

At once Bard was on his feet. He had crossed the scant distance between them in the time it look for Lindir to rise. Moments later Bard had him by his robe, fists white-knuckled.

“My daughter,” he hissed, “has been stolen away by one of the few people left in this galaxy I actually care about. Who could be unstable. Who could be _mad_. Is _that_ in the past, Jedi?”

Lindir blinked at him. It crossed Bard’s mind that he was outmatched, that with a word or a gesture or a movement of his lightsaber, this confrontation would be finished. But Lindir waited until Bard pulled himself back, loosening his hands until the Jedi’s robes slid free, turning away, pressing his hands over his face.

“She isn’t your daughter anymore,” Lindir said softly. “She stopped being that as soon as she began her training.”

“If that’s the case,” Bard said without turning, “why would Thranduil take her?”

Lindir said nothing.

Bard raised his head and lowered his hands once he had his breathing under control. His jaw was tight. He did not turn around, not yet. “Where is he, Lindir.”

“We don’t—”

“ _Where is he?”_ Bard whirled around to face him. Whatever Lindir saw in his eyes, it was enough to stop whatever excuse had been forming on his lips. Instead, he just shook his head.

“If we had any leads, that’s where I’d be. I came here not to inform you of Thranduil’s circumstances or Tilda’s disappearance, but because you are the only person connected enough to both of them to know where he might have taken them.” Lindir inclined his head. “Think, Bard. Do you know where they might have gone.”

Bard stared out through the window, the golden-green plains beginning their strange dance in the electric winds outside. “I don’t,” he whispered. “I have no idea.”

After a while, Lindir sighed. He stepped forward and set a metal card on the table with a soft clink. “No,” he said tiredly. “It seems you do not. You can contact me here, if you think of anything. We will do everything we can to retrieve them. Both of them.”

“And will I ever know if you do?” Bard asked bitterly. “Or will this be just another one of your loose ends?”

Lindir hesitated on his way to the door. “I will make sure you are informed,” he said. “Now that we’ve begun this, we will see it through to the end.” Bard stared down at the dull grey metal card on the table. The gnawing fear was gone. Inside he was only empty. He knew from experience that it would not last, that something much worse was coming. “Bard,” Lindir said, and his tone made Bard turn to face him one more time. Lindir’s eyes were sad, but beneath the pity and regret there was a warning. “Do not go after them,” he said quietly. “That is exactly what Thranduil wants.”

A distant memory stirred in the back of Bard’s mind, the first germs of a thought. He smothered it. He shunted his thoughts away. “My children need me here,” he said. “I won’t abandon them.”

That seemed to be enough. Lindir inclined his head. Almost as an afterthought he said, “I am sorry that this is happening.” And without another word, he stepped outside into the static winds, his robe billowing around him before the door shut him out. Flight in a storm was dangerous, but Bard offered him no warnings or well-wishes.

Only when Bard heard the sound of the speeder taking off did he let his back hit the wall. He slid down to the floor, his legs practically giving out beneath him. His eyes were dry. His hands shook in front of his face, and he clenched them to stop the trembling. He didn’t have long before Sigrid and Bain would come back into the room. By then, he would have to have finished discovering how deep this new loss truly went.

In the back of his mind, held as carefully as a glass sphere, was the thought he had hidden from Lindir. He reached for it now. Let it weigh him down, steady him. It tugged him back to a room a long time ago, when happiness had not seemed so far away, more like a thing that bloomed out of sadness than a thin sheet to hide it. He closed his eyes. He breathed in. He remembered. Without thinking, his hand had slipped into his pocket, to seize around the necklace he had taken to carrying with him wherever he went.

And then he rose to his feet, and called out for his remaining children, for it was time for them all to get ready.

 

 

Their small, open-cabin speeder would never so much as clear the tops of the trees on this planet. If they were going to get into the atmosphere, they needed something else. In the past year Bard had managed to scrounge some savings—in the next two days he sold their speeder, their electrical relays, and any things of value that were left in their house. In the end it was enough, just barely, to buy a craft that could get them out of this system. Bard suspected the man gave him the price he did because of how desperate he looked. He didn’t care. He _was_ desperate.

“Are you sure they’ll be there, Da?” Bain asked. He stood by Bard’s shoulder as Bard checked up on all the controls at the ancient ship’s cockpit. The thing hardly looked like it would get off the ground, let alone make it through the atmosphere. But it would, because it had to. Just like Bard would find what he was looking for. Because he had to. Because he was a man driven on faith, on bending the conditions of the universe to his needs on sheer will alone.

And when he reached into his pocket to touch the cold metal of the emerald necklace, he knew it would be enough.

“They will,” Bard said, and there was no hesitation in his voice. “Go check on the rear thrusters. Make sure there’s nothing blocking them. We take off within the hour.”

Bain nodded, sliding down the ladder that slid from the belly of the ship onto the ground. Sigrid remained in the co-pilot’s chair, reading the ancient manuals she had dug out of a compartment in the back, dusting off the controls. When her brother left she turned to Bard. “They’ll be there. I feel it too.”

“But you are worried.”

Sigrid nodded. “Da… what’s going to happen when we find them?”

Bard reached over and squeezed her shoulder. It wasn’t enough, wasn’t nearly enough. He had so little to give his children, so little that he could do. “I don’t know, darling.” Then, “we’ll save them.”

Sigrid covered his hand with her own, and let it fall. He could see in her eyes that she wanted to believe him.  

In the end it took them almost two hours to get everything ready. They tied their provisions down in the narrow storage bay, cleared all the exhaust vents, skimmed the worst off the top of the fuel tanks. They patched up loose wires with flex-tape, secured their flight-harnesses as tight as they would go. Bard began the protocols to bring the ship back to life, feeling the controls hum beneath his hands as the engine started to work. This ship would take them somewhere, whether it was where they wanted to go or a more final destination. It would be something. Anything, but staying still.

“Are you ready?” Bard asked, and his children both nodded.

He eased on the controls. The ship gave a lurch, shaking so hard that the metal plates rattled together like chattering teeth. Bain’s grip on his chair was white-knuckled; Sigrid’s eyes did not leave the controls on the dashboard. And then the ship left the ground, and its shuddering became a distant vibration—they were rising, and then they were flying, moving forward and up and away from the ground, moving towards Tilda. Bard smiled a grim smile, and pressed the controls harder. They headed for the atmosphere.

For all the difficulty in getting there, sublight space itself was quiet. After the red glare faded as they broke out of the planet’s atmosphere, after they left air and sun and gravity behind, all that was left was stillness, waiting.

Sigrid was asleep in her chair, head tilted back and mouth open. Somewhere in the back of the ship Bain was fiddling with the power couplings they’d salvaged. Bard stared out through the glass, into the stars. He felt as if his vision were falling into them, wandering further away from his body. It was hard to believe that they were going out into that—even harder to believe they could find their way back.

Not for the first time, Bard reached into his pocket to pull out a metal disk the size of a small stone: the electrical relay from back on-planet, the last remnant of a life that might have been his. He turned it over in his fingers, wondering if things would be different, better, if Lindir had never told him that Tilda had been taken.

What was waiting for them out there? Bard dragged a hand over his face. His skin felt rubbery, without feeling. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept. Whenever he closed his eyes all he saw were faces, faces that punched a hole in his chest.

Whenever he started thinking about Thranduil a pit of cold darkness opened in the pit of his stomach, leading somewhere far away that Bard did not want to go. He had no choice.  The longer they traveled, the stronger the sensation grew; Bard couldn’t imagine what was going on in Thranduil’s head. All that time spent searching, desperate… alone. Bard pulled the necklace from his pocket and weighed it in his hand. His heart jolted behind his ribs, as if he had brushed a live wire. The sensation was brief, and brought with it the sensation of damp and cold against his skin. He pressed a hand over his heart as if he could push it back between his ribs. Thranduil had said that the emeralds from Bard’s planet had power.

Bard didn’t understand what it was or how he could use it, but all that mattered was that it guided him true. Towards what ending—that was the problem. Thranduil had spent all this time looking for him. What would he do when Bard came to him at last?  What would Bard do to him?

Bard checked the course. He adjusted it, microscopically. He ensured all the fueling systems were at their proper pressure. He checked the course again.

It was going to be a long night, and the sunrise was only a cold and distant star.


	16. Chapter 16

 

The planet was, in the end, not so difficult to find.

Bard couldn’t say how he knew. Thranduil had mentioned it more than once, always in vague references. Bard knew its system, its location between planets, the general course that would have taken Thranduil past it. He had been up late calculating orbits, tracking the paths that would have each planet swinging into the area of space where the planet might have occupied. But in the end it was neither math nor enigmatic clues from memory that helped him find his way. He _knew_. He followed the tug in his chest, though the closer he grew the more painful it grew.

His older children began to woke as the planet grew before them, a bright jewel on a black field, misted with clouds, half-cast in night. “Da…” Sigrid whispered, and said no more. Bard reached out to squeeze her hand.

This time they broke through the planet’s atmosphere quickly, the black of space burning away outside of the ship’s hull into a violent blue sky. Far below, the planet’s surface was of tumbling rock and tough, dry grasses, mountains broken by deep chasms that opened like ragged mouths. There seemed to be ruins down there, or perhaps just strange rock formations—it was a lonely, desolate place if Bard had ever seen one. He thought of how Thranduil had described the planet, the place where he’d thought they could all be happy. Could this really be it?

“Bain, do a preliminary scan of the planet’s surface,” Bard said. He let no trace of his uncertainty enter into his voice.

From Bain’s chair behind him, the sound of typing. “There are a few major settlements spread out across the planet’s surface—when I say major, I mean relatively. There’s not a lot of life here. Even less civilization.”

Bard’s hands on the controls had begun to sweat. How were they supposed to find two people on the face of an entire planet? But something kept him going, kept him moving the controls and setting a course though he didn’t know where. “What can you tell me about the surface itself?”

“We’re in the mountain regions here. In the lowlands it gives way to forests. Most of the towns are outside of them.”

“The forests are where we need to be,” Bard said with certainty. Luckily neither of his children asked him how he knew.

Sigrid and Bain took turns guiding him through the mountain peaks, passing over small villages hung with colorful flags, rookeries full of what seemed to be birds that took off in a black cloud as their speeder approached. The land sloped down, the stone turned to grass. And then, without warning, the forest began.

From high above the planet’s surface it seemed a dark line marching across the land beneath them. There was no gradual shift from grass to shrub to tree—the forest was simply _there,_ matted and dense in shades of green and brown, like a single living thing sprawled all the way to the horizon. Seeing it Bard’s stomach twist. He pressed the ship harder, and the tree-tops slid past faster and faster below, their branches reaching up like fingers beckoning them down.

They passed over the forest for hours, wheeling in slow, ponderous circles over a sea of unending and indifferent vegetation. Bard felt like it was weighing him down, gravity tugging him towards the surface of the planet as if his bones were made of lead. The feeling that had led him here, the tugging in his chest so keen it had become almost painful, seemed to lead him in circles now.

“Where should we land?” Sigrid asked softly. “Are they close?”

Bard blinked out at the forest below them. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “I can’t feel anything.”

He heard Bain lean forward. “Try closing your eyes,” his son suggested. “Just see where it takes you. We’re so close now, Da, they have to be here.”

Bard drew a slow, shaky breath. It was foolish, perhaps. He was no Jedi, had never trained in the Force. And yet what other hope did they have? This time when he reached into his pocket and brought out the string of emeralds, he did not simply hold them in his hand. He reached up and clasped them around his neck, tucking them beneath the hem of his shirt so that they weighed against his skin. He felt no immediate difference. He closed his eyes.

The faint vibrations from the controls traveled up his arms as they always had. He felt no rush of intuition, no opening in his mind. And yet—there was something. A pull, so much fainter than it had been before, so different from the pain and the emptiness that had led him to this planet. This was like a bright light in the distance, made tiny and dim by the vast space around it. He followed it. By tiny degrees, his hands moved the controls, and he felt Sigrid’s hand tighten fractionally on his arm.

Only when the sensation seemed to settle in his chest did he open his eyes again. He knew this was as close as they were going to get. And yet, the forest was impenetrable—there was no place to land. The ship hovered near the upmost branches, making them lash and heave in its wind.

“How are we supposed to get down there?” Sigrid asked.

Bard stared down at it with a knot in his stomach. “We’re not,” he said quietly. “You and Bain will have to stay here, keep the ship flying. I’ll go down on my own, and radio you for a pickup.”

“That’s crazy!” Bain cried. “You can’t go in there by yourself. It’s too dangerous.”

“Bain is right,” Sigrid said. “You need backup. Two more pairs of eyes.”

Bard gestured at the unbroken canopy that spilled out for miles around them. “Landing in that isn’t a question. Anyone who makes it to the surface will have to be lowered down from the ship. You know it’s the only way, Sig.”

“Then at least let one of us come!” Bain cried. “We don’t know what’s down there.”

Slowly, Bard unbuckled his flight harness. At her place in the copilot’s chair, Sigrid had already reached out to assume the secondary controls. She did not look at him—her mouth was set in a grim line. She’d already accepted the inevitable.

Bard stood, stiff muscles protesting. He turned around to stand in front of Bain’s chair, dropping into a crouch so that he and his son were at eye level. “I know what’s down there,” Bard said softly. “It’s your sister. And there’s no time to waste. I need you up here, Bain, helping Sigrid keep the ship in the air. Can you do that for me?”

Bain’s eyes were creased with an old sort of pain, the expression he’d always wear as a child whenever Bard would have to leave for his work. He looked so young, with his freckles and his smooth face framed with curls. He could have been a toddler again, clinging to his mother’s legs as Bard set off towards the docks once more. They’d lost so much since then. Bard wouldn’t let them lose anyone else.

“Alright,” Bain said softly. “I’ll try.”

Bard nodded. “Good man.”

A winch in the cargo bay was the answer to their problem. Bard got the hatch open with a hiss of released air, revealing the thrashing leaves of the treetops not so far below. The smell wafted up out of the open hatch, growing things mingled with rot, the sweetness of flowers with a breath of carrion beneath. Bard made a makeshift sling out of the winch’s hook, wrapping it under his arms so that he would not fall. Sigrid got the ship as low as it was likely to go, teetering over a miniscule break in the trees. Bain waited by the controls, his expression wretched but resolved. Bard met eyes with both his children, offering them both a nod. “I’ll be right back,” he said. He stepped out into the air before he had a chance to see whether his children believed him.

He descended through the buffeting wind, the metal wire digging into his skin as he was lowered into the forest like a hunk of meat. The leaves eagerly parted to accept him. Branches tangled around him in a sudden maze—he pushed away from them as best as he could, trying not to get tangled up. By some miracle he made it to the forest floor, and managed to disentangle himself from the sling and send it shooting back up towards the grey belly of the ship. He could just barely glimpse it through the tops of the trees. He’d landed in a murky brown twilight, as if he were standing at the bottom of a pond with only a glimmer of sunlight above.

“Do you read me?” he said into the handheld he’d pulled from his belt.

“This is Sigrid. We read.” The sound of her voice was a reassurance, even knowing that the short distance that separated them now was virtually impassable.

“Take the ship further away from the canopy, and circle until you hear from me,” Bard said. His eyes scanned the undergrowth around him with apprehension. Roots tangled with each other in a struggle to worm into the ground—grey bushes with wiry branches made it difficult to see far between the trunks of the trees. There were certain places where the forest seemed to open up into a narrow corridor, almost like a path—but no footprints were pressed into the dirt that Bard could see, and the forest around him was eerily silent.

“Let’s keep communication to a minimum,” he said. Already his voice was lower, more cautious. “Only emergency calls. When the time comes, I’ll give you my location for a pick up.”

There was a pause so long he worried that the ship hadn’t received him. When Sigrid’s voice returned, it said only a single word: “Hurry.”

Bard didn’t need to be told twice.

He wasn’t entirely sure how he chose a direction to set off in—all ways looked the same under the flat, murky light, but though the ground was even it seemed that part of it slanted downhill, and the weight of the stones around his neck urged him towards it. Closing his eyes now brought no fresh waves of enlightenment, and the way the forest seemed to press closer and darker with every new step he took, he did not want to keep his eyes closed for long. On his belt, his blaster was a cold weight against his clothes. He’d been a famous shot, once. Could be that would mean nothing here and now, when what he was facing couldn’t simply be shot like a scorched target, the victory simply declared.

The longer he walked, the more certain he was of faint scuttlings of motion from the undergrowth around his path. He could have sworn he caught motion out of the corners of his eyes, something low to the ground and moving fast. Bard didn’t like it. Anything moving that quickly and quietly was probably hunting. And he hadn’t seen any prey among the grey-brown branches of the trees, alone and vulnerable as he was.

It wasn’t long after that when he came across the cave.

It began with the sound of water, a faint, sluggish burbling that quickened his pace. His hand was a constant presence on the grip of his blaster now, though he did not draw it. Somehow he knew that as soon as he did, he would have to use it. It got to the point where no matter how much further he went on the path, the water-sound grew no louder. It must have run parallel to where he was, somewhere behind the undergrowth. Bard hesitated for a moment longer, listening for the sinister movements among the trees, but all he heard was moving water. At last, he made up his mind. He took the first step off the path towards the sound of water, pushing past the bushes until he’d left the open space behind him.

It was harder going, even with the sound of the creek growing louder with every faltering step. The silver-grey bushes were heavy with berries here, dark globular things that left red-black trails on Bard’s skin and clothes. At long last, the bushes parted—the creek spilled out before him, smooth but for the occasional rock dragging ripples over its dark surface. It had cut into its banks like a wire through soft clay, distant, sluggish, and eerily quiet. On the opposite bank, bushes leaned down the arm’s span into the water like animals bending to drink. And at its far end, Bard caught his first glimpse of the cave.

The land rose up, but the creek kept going—it cut straight into it, a dark line moving through the soft earth, hollowing out a gaping hole. The moment Bard saw it, he knew he needed to go inside. It was more than just a feeling. Somewhere deep within the darkness, a faint green light glimmered.

As he watched it wavered like a flame, flared up, and then disappeared entirely. He almost could have imagined it. Almost, but not quiet.

There was no dry land to keep to—the cave arched up over the water with no space to spare. Bard hesitated a moment before slowly lowering himself on the banks of the river, swinging his legs over the water and then dipping them beneath the surface. It was almost warm, like the touch of living flesh. He shuddered, lowering himself in until he felt his boots hit the soft bottom. The water came up to his hips. He carefully lifted his blaster above the surface, and set off towards the mouth of the cave. The bottom of the river sucked at his feet, forcing him to move as slowly as if he were in a dream.

All at once, the noise from the undergrowth stirred back to life, not coming from one direction but seemingly from all around. From somewhere behind him, he heard a splash.

Bard clutched his blaster and ran.

The cave loomed in front of him, a damp open mouth. He plunged towards it, feet sliding on the creek bed, water sucking at his legs with every step. A clicking noise came from the woods around him, and from the corner of his eyes he could catch the start of seething motion. He did not look. His eyes remained on the cave as if he could drag himself towards it by vision alone. Something grazed his shoulder, burning pain, clinging to his coat, a shriek in his ear—he stumbled, fell. The water closed over his head.

He could feel the water churning with frantic struggles beside him. He struggled away from that first, and then could not remember which way was up—his fingers raked through nothing but silty water. The breath had gone out of his lungs. Now they burned in agony. The tips of his fingers brushed over something soft, yielding: the bottom of the river. He got his feet under him. He pushed back to the surface.

He sucked down a gasp of air as soon as he broke the surface, but for a moment he thought he was still underwater. It was dark, much darker than it had been. He twisted around, trying to get his bears—as he turned, he saw a ragged gash of daylight hanging like a doorway behind him. The entrance to the cave; only now it was the exit. The creek’s current must have carried him the final distance inside. Nothing stirred in the water around him, and nothing moved into the cave after him. Of his assailant there was no sign. He had to hope that whatever creatures they were, they could not swim.

The blaster was still in his hand, only now it was nothing more than a dead weight, silent, the charge gone out of it. It wouldn’t work for hours now, not until he’d dried it and cleaned it. He bit his tongue on a curse. Now he was unarmed. He put the blaster back into its holster all the same. There was no time to waste trying to make it work. As he put his back to the light from outside, he caught the glimmer of another light from deeper inside. With it came a familiar lurch in his chest, a tug that guided Bard on.

He had no light of his own. The going was slow, feet placed carefully as the soft silt of the creek bed gave way to slippery stone. The water quickly grew shallower, coming only to his thighs and then his knees. Wet, shivering, and unarmed, with no idea of what was waiting for him—

The green light soon grew bright enough for Bard to see that the cave had opened up around him, and the creek he had been blindly was bordered with enough dry land to walk on. Bard clambered up out of the water and saw that there was a chamber that opened up to the side of the creek, and the light was coming from within. Bard hesitated. Only for a moment. He could not afford to look back, to lose faith.

He made his way into the second chamber. The glow from within was enough for him to place his feet by. He moved slowly, but did not slow down. There was a hum in the air now, a smell like ozone. Bard rounded the corner, and saw Thranduil’s face.


	17. Chapter 17

Thranduil was kneeling on the stone floor of the cave, lightsaber drawn. He held it in front of his face and stared into its light as if transfixed. The air around it rippled and distorted—it washed over Thranduil’s face as well, twisting it into an inhuman mask. Thranduil did not look up at him as Bard stepped closer. He stared into his lightsaber as if watching something move within it, the green light washing his face in its sickly glow.

“Hello?” That voice. So small, so familiar. It took the feeling in Bard’s chest and laid it open. From the back of the cave, a small figure—but not so small as Bard remembered—huddled against the stone. She seemed unhurt. That was the first thing Bard told himself, to stop the pounding of his heart behind his eyes. He wiped at them quickly. No time for that now. He would have run to her, but the green light, the kneeling figure, was waiting between them both.

“I’m here,” he whispered hoarsely. “Tilda. Oh, darling…”

“You shouldn’t have come.” His daughter’s voice was weighted with more care than Bard had thought possible in so short a life.

He smiled a painful smile that perhaps she could not see. “You know I could never stay away.”

“Bard.” Thranduil’s words were quiet, but they filled up the dark spaces around them like a cold draft. If Tilda had gone through many changes since Bard had seen her last, Thranduil had outdone her. His voice had always been deep, imposing. Now it seemed filled with empty chambers, hollow and echoing. Slowly, Thranduil climbed to his feet, lowered his lightsaber but did not sheath it. Bard could see now it was not just his voice that had changed. His eyes were dark and retreated into his skull, as if weighted into his own flesh by some internal gravity. He smiled. The expression crawled down Bard’s spine.

“I have waited for this moment for so long,” Thranduil said. His voice was fond, and terrible. “I knew you would be able to find me. The Force is strong with you, Bard, just as it is with your daughter. With training, you could have been great. But even this is enough.”

Bard said nothing in reply; his eyes darted to Tilda again. The motion did not go unnoticed.

“Ah. That.” Thranduil gestured to Tilda without looking at her. “I knew there was only one way to draw you out. I expect you’re very angry with me. It’s only natural. I’ve accepted it.”

“You’ve accepted it?” Bard might have stepped forward. The lightsaber in Thranduil’s hand kept him back. The sound of it permeated the air, a dull whine like a swarm of insects. “Thranduil, what are we doing here?”

“The Council searches for me, especially now. I had to be sure they wouldn’t find us first.” Thranduil looked down, staring at the hand that held his lightsaber. “I knew they had done everything in their power to keep you from me. I’ve been searching for so long, Bard…” He shook his head. The glazed look in his eyes blinked away. “None of that matters now. You’re here. I knew that, given the right push, you would come to me at last.”

Bard stared at him in silence. He was getting the feeling, the longer Thranduil talked, that this was not the man he had known.

Thranduil looked back up at him with a smile that was almost shy. “So quiet, Bard. Aren’t you happy to see me? To see us?”

“This isn’t the reunion I had in mind,” Bard said.

“But you _did_ think of it. You wanted this, though you lacked the strength to make it a reality. I did it for you.”

“You kidnapped my daughter.”

“They kidnapped her first.”

Arguments died on Bard’s lips. And the hum, the hum of Thranduil’s lightsaber slid beneath every thought and word like a current of anxiety. Bard would rather have stood in the dark than felt it so near. He remembered Lindir’s words, the warnings of what Thranduil had done. But could an agent of the Council really be trusted?

“I take it Sigrid and Bain are close,” Thranduil continued.

“They’ll come if I need them to.”

Thranduil smiled. “I did tell you that you would see this planet eventually,” he said. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

“A desolate kind of beauty,” Bard said carefully. He had begun to edge slightly to the side, trying to work his way around the perimeter of the chamber to where Tilda was huddled. “A dangerous kind.”

“It called out to me from the moment I saw it first,” Thranduil said. “And now we are all here, together. Nothing stands between us anymore, Bard. We can stay here, you, me, your family.”

Bard forced a laugh. “What, here in this cave?”

Something flickered over Thranduil’s face. A flash of rage, quickly smoothed away. “Anywhere. The forest is wide, and in it they will never find us. It’s what you’ve wanted.”

Bard shook his head. “I never wanted this.”

The flicker, again. Not so quickly banished this time. “What are you saying?”

“You aren’t yourself. Thranduil, the things you’ve done—”

“I did them for you!” Thranduil snarled. “Should I have stood back blithely and let the Council whisk you away forever?”

“And what have you done instead?” Bard couldn’t keep his voice level. “They told me, Thranduil. I didn’t want to believe it.”

“They drove me to it.”

“You _chose_ —”

“ _No_.” Thranduil raised his lightsaber, the gesture seemingly an unconscious one. “I had no choice. _I_ was the one who had to search for you, to pull us back together again. I knew the Council wouldn’t allow you to come to me.”

Bard’s heart beat in his throat. “It wasn’t just the Council,” he said quietly. “I did what I thought was right. For both of us.”

Thranduil stared at him. It seemed a different sort of heat shined in his eyes, like the curls of it that wavered around his lightsaber. A fevered sort of energy. “So then,” he said softly. “You didn’t want me.”

“Thranduil—”

“I suppose you were happy when the Council approached you,” Thranduil said. He took a step forward. “The perfect excuse for you to slither out of my life. And you let me believe that you still cared.”

“Don’t say that. I _do_ care. You can’t possibly doubt—”

“And what of your blaster?” Thranduil said softly.

Bard’s hand flew to it unconsciously. “A precaution.”

“Of course. And you would have used it, I’m sure, if you had felt the need.” At once, some invisible force yanked the weapon from its holster, and sent it flying across the room. It hit the cave wall with enough force to shatter, the report of it echoing. Tilda cried out, covering her head with her arms. Thranduil was close now, close enough that Bard could almost feel the energy of his lightsaber beating against his skin. Bard wouldn’t look at it. He refused to look away from Thranduil’s eyes; refused to believe that what he saw in them was madness.

“You aren’t yourself,” Bard whispered. “Thranduil, please. Think about what you’re doing.”

“I should have known this would happen,” Thranduil spat. “I had to become strong. But you—you’re weak. And you make me weak. I see that now.”

“Thranduil—”

“Stop talking.” His free hand rose, hovered in the air. All at once, Bard could not breathe.

He raised a hand to his throat, knowing even as he did that it was futile—the words he’d meant to say seemed lodged in his windpipe. His lips mouthed Thranduil’s name, but no sound would come. He heard Tilda cry out, and willed her to stay back.

“All this time I thought that I needed you,” Thranduil whispered. He was watching Bard’s struggle to breathe as if it were something far away, a distant concern. “I see now. You’ve held me back.”

The lightsaber swung up. It hovered inches from Bard’s cheek, radiating heat. Dark spots were gathering in the corner of his eyes. It was all he could do to fall to his knees without letting that awful light sear into his face. He hardly felt the stone beneath him. He stared into Thranduil’s eyes.

“All this time,” Thranduil whispered. His hand reached out, still closing Bard’s windpipe with a power he could not fight—slowly, painfully, he brushed Bard’s cheek with the back of his hand, even as the sound of Bard choking filled the close cave air. His lightsaber drifted closer, a green light that filled Bard’s vision. “I should have known it was already too late.”

“Let him go!” The words rang shrilly through the cave. At once the green light was gone, and Bard slumped forward gagging on air that felt like stones pushing down his windpipe. Unconsciousness loomed,  but Bard reeled back from it—he forced himself to raise his eyes to the figure on the other side of the cave, small and slight and holding Thranduil’s lightsaber where she had Force-Pulled it from his unsuspecting hand. Tilda’s face was set in hard lines, but Bard could see her hands shaking.

Thranduil turned towards her, as slow and ponderous as a shark scenting blood. Thranduil saw his expression go blank. Whatever he saw before him, it was not Bard’s daughter. Merely another obstacle, an enemy to be eliminated.

Thranduil raised his hand.

“No!” Bard yelled, his voice so hoarse it was almost there. Thranduil heard it. He jerked back at the same moment Bard surged to his feet, diving forward—Thranduil’s hand reached up and caught him by the throat. Beneath his grip, the necklace of emeralds pressed into Bard’s neck like teeth.

Bard felt it coming a split second later, dizziness and a sense of sliding away, stronger than ever before. On instinct alone, he reached out to touch the side of Thranduil’s face even as his trip tightened on Bard’s throat.

He saw.

Thranduil snaps his neck. His body slides to the floor, and Thranduil stares at it blankly. He doesn’t seem to hear Tilda’s scream of anguish as she rushes forward, the lightsaber on its downward swing before Thranduil even turns. He stumbles, a hand raising to the smoking gash that opens his chest from shoulder to hip, dying in seconds and leaving Tilda a murderer, an orphan—

He saw.

Thranduil is the only one to walk out of the cave, leaving the last shreds of his former self lying burned and dead inside. He ceases to think about the Light side or the Dark. He simply acts as he wishes, and the consequences do not touch him, until he is struck down with Tauriel’s lightsaber in his heart, a mercy killing, a mad dog put down before it can bite any more.

He saw.

Far from the cave, a different future, seeded in a different past. Thranduil lands in the lakewater near Bard’s house, exchanges a polite word as Bard loads the cargo into his ship. There are no lingering glances. No spark of connection between them. Thranduil climbs back into his ship and flies away, and Bard goes back inside. They both live quiet, lonely lives, and die with the feeling of having missed an important transport, of having forgotten something desperately important.

He saw.

The Jedi come to Esgaroth decades earlier, and this time it’s a young Bard their interest settles upon. They take him to the Temple, train him in their ways. One of the other Padawans there catches his eye, a solemn boy with pale blond hair. He and Thranduil grow up together, graduate together, work together whenever they can. This time they both know enough to see what lies beyond their grasp, a future between them the Code will now allow. Their feelings grow distant by necessity, and fester into cold reserve. They drift away because the alternative is to lose everything, and they have been taught that having nothing is always the better option.

He saw—

Thranduil gasped, jerking against him, starting to pull away. Bard clasped his hands over Thranduil where it was drawing away from his neck, pinning it between his flesh and the emeralds he wore.

He saw—

The two of them, together, happy. No past or future attached, no path spooling out before and behind them. A moment, suspended in time. A laugh. A gentle touch. The two of them moving off into a warm glow, towards an uncertain future, but going together.

Bard let his hand slowly fall to his side. Thranduil didn’t try to pull away this time. He merely stood with his hand resting on the hollow of Bard’s throat, his eyes staring at the glint of green there with an expression of amazement mingled with horror.

“Bard?” he whispered, like a man waking up from a long sleep.

Bard watched him, swaying on his feet, too tired and in pain to worry about whether Thranduil’s grip on his neck would tighten once more. But Thranduil’s hands were shaking now, a foundation inside of him crumbling apart.

“Did you see it too?” he whispered. Bard nodded. Thranduil took his hand off Bard’s throat as he had been burned. “I thought—I wouldn’t—” Thranduil took a step backwards, almost staggering against the wall. He raised his hands to his face as if to cover it, but then simply stared at them. Bard saw his face taking on shapes he recognized, the cold emptiness replaced with something almost worst—anguish.

“Thranduil,” he said, his voice raspy and pained—Thranduil’s head jerked up in response, but there was no relief in meeting Bard’s gaze.

“That future,” Thranduil said. “I never thought I would see it again.” His eyes darted to Tilda, standing across the cave with his lightsaber in her hand. She watched them, wary, but keeping her distance.

“I don’t deserve it now.” There was a quiet finality in his voice. Before Bard could speak, he had turned away and stumbled towards the passageway that would lead to the mouth of the cave.

“Wait,” Bard croaked, taking a step after him. He was too weak to follow where Thranduil did not want him. “Thranduil, please—”

“Let him go.” The voice was calm with wisdom beyond its years. Bard turned to see Tilda standing at his side, Thranduil’s lightsaber held at a passive angle towards the ground providing the only light in the cave. “He needs this, now. You’ve done what you could.” She looked at him with a hint of sadness, but mostly with an expression of fear that twisted in Bard’s chest. Did she think that he might hurt her?

“Tilda,” he whispered, and her name felt so strange on his lips, grown far-away with disuse. She blinked at the sound of her, seemed ready to take a step back.

A horrible possibility occurred to him, for the years which had gone by so quickly to him had been almost a third of his daughter’s life. “Do you remember me?” he asked, unable to hide the tremor in his voice.

At once Tilda’s expression crumbled. It was then that Bard saw what she was really afraid of—that he wouldn’t truly recognize _her_. “Oh, Da…” she whispered. “Did you really think I’d forget?”

Bard couldn’t hold back a moment later. He stepped forward, arms open, at the same moment Tilda let the lightsaber die and slip from her fingers with a clatter. Bard embraced his daughter in utter darkness for the first time in years. She felt like a stranger to him, after so long away—but a stranger he could come to know and love as easily as if they had never been apart.


	18. Chapter 18

They found Thranduil’s ship two days later, its engine a smoking ruin. The fuses had been shorted beyond repair, the fire they caused deliberate. It was clear Thranduil had no intention of leaving this planet. It was up to Bard to find him.

“He won’t go far,” Tilda said. They sat around a fire near the edge of the forest, their ship settled down on a rocky outcropping a short distance away. Sigrid and Bain stared at their sister with nervousness, still struggling to reconcile this solemn girl with the sister they thought they had lost.

Bard knew Tilda was right. He had put the emeralds in a safe on the ship with no intention of ever touching them again, but her words rang true because he knew Thranduil as well as he knew himself.

The next morning while the children explored the nearby area, Bard sat at his ship’s consoles and began to work. His time as a smuggler had taught him well. He routed the signal through enough filters and bounce-backs that no one would have a hope in tracing it. Only then did he hail the Jedi Council on the Holonet.

The face that appeared before him was unfamiliar, though the blank expression was true to any Jedi.

“Bard,” he said. “This is quite the surprise.”

“Who am I speaking to?” Bard asked.

“My name is Elrond.”

“And are you on the Council?”

“Indeed I am.”

“Good. Then listen closely.” Bard leaned forward. He couldn’t keep the channel open for too long, scrambling aside. “Thranduil is with me now. From this point on, you’ll never hear from or about us ever again. If you’re still hunting him, it stops now.”

Elrond smiled coolly, his image sliding its hands into its sleeves. “He’s dangerous, Bard.”

“He always has been.”

“And why should we let him go simply because you tell us to?”

Bard stared at Elrond hard. “Because I’m going to help him. And deep down, I think that’s what you really want. But you can always prove me wrong.” Without another word, he switched off the holo. The room felt lighter without it on, pale morning sunlight streaming through the windows. He hadn’t seen light like that for most of his life. It was beautiful.

He wandered out of the ship itself to stand on the rock outside. In the near distance he could see his children climbing a rocky outcropping, Sigrid and Bain tentatively offering their younger sister a hand when she faltered. Their family was still broken. No amount of reunions, joyful or not, would ever change that. Broken was simply a thing that they were. But if it was too late for them to be whole, perhaps it was time for them to be happy.

Bard turned back towards the forest. Somewhere out there Thranduil was doing his best to run away. Bard knew the feeling. He’d been the one to run away first. And after Thranduil had spent almost a year tearing the galaxy apart to get to him, it seemed only fair for Bard to take his turn. He was patient. He had something worth waiting for.

He could see Thranduil in his mind’s eye, Force-vision or pure imagination, he could not be sure. He saw himself stepping forward, taking Thranduil’s hand before he could pull away. He would lean forward, when it happened, and press his lips to Thranduil’s brow before speaking a single word. Bard would tell him that all was forgiven. Bard would tell him that now, finally, they had all the time they would need.


	19. epilogue

_Ten years later._

 

The wind tumbled over the mountain peaks with a lonely, desolate howl. It was springtime, and despite the raw sound that wavered high up in the air, in the foothills the climate was damp and warm. It was a good sign. The vegetation would grow well this year, and there would be plenty to eat. Thranduil took in a long, deep breath, feeling the touch of nearby life-forms on his unconscious mind—the flutter of birds, the gnawing of worms, the steady unchanging presence of the grass. In the distance, the forest was a dense, busy weight on his mind. And closer even than that, he sensed two familiar presences slowly making their way to him.

Thranduil smiled to himself, and clambered up from where he had been sitting on a flat stone. His legs had been bent for hours—the joints cracked in complaint as he stood. Peering out over the rolling hills, he could see his visitors approaching: one small and lithe, picking its way among the rocks with agile feet, and the other slower, larger, taking its time. Thranduil turned, making his way down the path to the sheltered gully below, where a stone cottage waited with an open door. The fire was already burning in the hearth—he put the kettle over it, and waited to greet his guests.

The smaller figure was first through the door, her hood pulled up over her face. She walked in without knocking and immediately sunk down at the kitchen table with a  groan, pulling her boots off before she had so much as removed her cloak.

“Those rocks are murder on my feet,” Tilda said, tossing both her shoes by the fire and stretching her woolen socks out towards the heat.

“You need new boots,” Thranduil chided gently, as he fished the kettle out of the flames and began preparing the tea.

“I like my boots,” Tilda said as she cast off her cloak. “I’d rather you found a better place to live.”

“New boots are easier to come by than a new house.”

“You could come live with us. Da would like that.”

Thranduil smiled to himself. The smell of mint rose from the pot as he let the leaves begin to steep. “And where is he now?”

“He’s here,” a voice grumbled from the doorway. “No thanks to his ungrateful daughter, who would happily leave her old man to expire on the mountainside if he stopped to catch his breath.”

“I didn’t want you to feel as if you were slowing me down,” Tilda said cheerfully.

Thranduil raised his eyes to meet Bard’s. The man was taking his coat off with stiff care—Thranduil knew his muscles grew sore when they made the climb. In the grey light from the windows, the silver in Bard’s hair stood out sharply against the brown. He was getting older. They both were. But then Bard caught his eye, and smiled that familiar mischievous smile; and things were no different, no different at all.

“You’ll have to forgive us old men,” Thranduil told Tilda. “It does take us a while to get where we need to go.”

Tilda glanced between the two and rolled her eyes. “You’re not that old.” She picked up a small cup of tea between her hands and headed for the door. “I’ll give you two a moment. I’ve plenty of meditating to do while you two make eyes at each other.”

“We’re not making eyes,” Bard said placidly as she stood on her toes to kiss his cheek on the way out. “We were simply looking.”

“Same differences.” Tilda gave a little wave as she left, her footsteps crunching down the stony path up the mountain that Thranduil had come down. A comfortable quiet filled up the stone cabin, settling between Thranduil and Bard like a warm and physical thing. Bard had settled himself at the table, reaching out to take a cup of tea for himself. Thranduil stayed near the fire, staring into the flames, deep in thought.

“I think it’s time,” he said at last.

Bard was quiet for a long while. “You’re certain? There’s no reason not to wait another year.”

Thranduil shook his head. “She’s ready. I’ve thought so for some time. Now, I have no doubt.”

“I trust your instincts. I think I’ve sensed it to, though maybe I’ve tried not to.”

Thranduil nodded. “Sigrid and Bain?”

“Bain’s doing well. He’s getting the transmitter in better condition—we’ll be able to access the holonet smoothly soon. And Sigrid says she may be able to visit within the next couple of months. Her work off-planet has been going well.”

“I’m glad.”

“Mm.” Something in Bard’s tone made Thranduil look up. The man was staring at him with a familiar expression—a quick of his lips, a glint in his eye. Thranduil rose from his place by the fire, walked over to the table, pulled one of the chairs out and positioned it in front of Bard’s. When he sat down their knees jangled together, and Bard’s hands reached out to take his own, rubbing warmth into his knuckles, raising them to press a kiss onto their backs.

“I missed you,” Bard said.

“Then you should have come sooner,” Thranduil replied.

Bard chuckled as he pressed one of Thranduil’s hands to the side of his face. “Perhaps you simply shouldn’t stay so far away.”

“Tilda said something similar. I’d almost suspect you two of flanking me.”

“You can take it.”

Thranduil smiled. He squeezed Bard’s hand in his own, enjoying the solid feeling of the man’s flesh and bone. “It’s better for me out here,” he said. “The quiet. The solitude. It lets me find my center.”

Bard smiled, and did not reply. They both knew why it was so important for Thranduil to be careful. That part of their past was closed and sealed, carefully put away. They wouldn’t get it out now.

“And of course,” Thranduil continued, “staying all the way out here means I get the pleasure of having you miss me.”

“Yes, I’m sure you enjoy that part.” Bard leaned forward. His lips were warm, soft; Thranduil kissed him slowly, simply enjoying the feeling of him near. There would be time for more, time for everything. He reached up to brush Bard’s hair behind his ear, and pressed their foreheads together.

“Tilda’s waiting for you,” Bard murmured. Thranduil pressed one last kiss to his lips. Then he went and got the box.

 

 

By the time he made it back up the slope of the hillside, Tilda was sitting on the flat stone where he had passed the early hours of the morning. He could feel the stillness of her mind, even from a distance. Thranduil had cast aside his use of the force, but his senses were still sharp; Tilda herself was powerful enough that even someone with the tiniest inclination in the force could have felt her.

Before he spoke, Tilda craned her neck around to squint at him. “Are we moving rocks again today?” she asked. “I’ve gotten my precision down since we trained together last. I think I’m almost there. I can show you.”

Thranduil settled down on the ground across from her with a smile. “There’s no need.”

She looked disappointed. “But I really have been practicing—”

“I know. You’re ready, Tilda.”

For a moment her face remained blank. Then a slow smile spread from her eyes to her mouth, something bright and beautiful unfolding. “Really?”

Thranduil took out the box. It was long and narrow, polished wood with a metal catch—he’d carved it himself some time ago, and it felt familiar resting in his hands. For a moment he simply held it, remembering; and then he offered it to Tilda. She hesitated before taking it, her fingers flitting over the smooth lid as if exploring the contours of her future. She settled it in her lap, fingering the clasp, and then popped it open. Inside was Thranduil’s lightsaber.

Tilda stared at it for long enough that Thranduil had to laugh. “It’s not just for decoration, you know. Take it out.”

She smiled bashfully, and did as he suggested. The light in her eyes dimmed ever so slightly as she weighed it in her hand. Thranduil wondered if she remembered it. An old darkness crowded around his heart as well, cold and all too familiar.

“The last time you held this weapon, we were as close to enemies as I hope we will ever come,” Thranduil said softly. “I have not used it since. It is no longer mine. But a Jedi needs a lightsaber, and what I have given up is yours. If you want it.”

Tilda looked up at him. Her hand tightened on the metal grip. “It would be my honor,” she said, inclining her head in the traditional way. Thranduil felt a pang in his heart, as if a final splinter from an old wound had slid free.

Tilda rose. She took a couple steps away, her back straight, shoulders set. She held the lightsaber in front of her. The blade shot from its grip with a sound like channeled lightning, an unburning flame. Thranduil stared at her back and watched the past fall away around her. She would carry it into a better future. He and Bard had given her that.

Thranduil stood up and set a hand on her shoulder. “Let’s go tell your father.”

They walked the path together, and at its end Bard waited for them both.

**Author's Note:**

> One thousand thank-yous to my beta, [cutlerbeckett](http://cutlerbeckettt.tumblr.com/), who inspired me to write this fic and then inspired me through many a midnight writing-angst session to follow.


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